This week I read a few bloggers’ responses to Salted Caramel’s #Blogging Insights prompt “Which mistakes did you make in your first few months of blogging?” I didn’t participate in the prompt, but I toyed with the question for a few days until I decided: The biggest mistake I made was biting off more than I could chew.
I started my first blog almost five years ago. I wanted to write on a specific topic but I’m not an expert on anything. Finally, an idea I could get behind came to me and my blog, “52 Weeks”, was born. The idea was to feature one special woman in my life each week. I had an abundance of spectacular female friends, family members, colleagues and acquaintances I could write about. There was beautiful, courageous Renée, a mother of two boys, who lost her husband to cancer when he was just 40 years old. There was my tribe of close “sisters” – friends I have known forever and who are each strong and beautiful in their own way. There was my step-daughter, a free spirit who often swims against the current to be true to herself.
So, armed with my niche topic, I outlined the process I would follow, compiled a list of names, and set out to launch my blog. The first person I asked to participate was Ida, someone I have known since grade school. When she accepted, I sent her a list of questions to answer. They included fun facts like: 1) What cause is close to your heart? What’s your biggest fear? Name a guilty pleasure. I also asked her to send me photos I could use with the post.
Once I had all the material, I began the post with the story of how we were connected, followed by her answers to my questions. So far, so good, right? Then came editing and that’s where I hit a roadblock. I wanted the post to really show Ida’s qualities and what makes her special. And I was afraid I just wasn’t doing her justice. So I spent my evenings reviewing, editing, then reviewing and editing again. By the time I published the post, I was behind on the research and work for the following week. And so it went until after nine weeks, I ran out of steam. I still think it was a good idea and I may get back to it someday!
I am thrilled and honoured to have this post published by the Quebec Writers Federation as part of their “Chronicling the Days” writing project. Pop over to the site to read the experience of other writers during the pandemic.
Welcome to QWF series ‘Chronicling the Days’, specifically for this strange uneasy time of coronavirus and pandemic, of social distancing and self isolation, of lockdown and quarantine. In April 2020, we invited writers in Quebec to submit a story – of a single day at this time, because while we’re all living through this time, […]
via Chronicling the Days – Linda Thompson — QWF Writes
Image by StockSnap from Pixabay
I have a friend who loves to take his laptop and sit in a bustling café to write or work. Well-known authors of books on writing recommend just that: Take yourself off to a place that will generate ideas or kick writer’s block to the curb. That could never work for me.
I write in my office in the basement of our home, alone and in silence. The desk I use is my son’s from his high school and college days. The base is a deep, forest green that matched the shade of green he had chosen for his room. He’d also picked out a wallpaper border that showed the majestic heads of a trio of wolves with the same green background. I’d gone along with his choices but hadn’t been convinced the result would be great. In the end, it turned out beautifully.
We bought him the desk after he was admitted to a high school he really wanted to attend. He had worked so hard to pass the entrance exam and the desk was recognition of that work. He didn’t want it when he left home so I claimed it. The light, faux-oak top is scuffed and well-used now but it reminds me of the days when he sat at this very desk, tapping his pen against it and daydreaming instead of doing homework.
The lamp perched on the desk is even older. It was a wedding gift from an aunt and is made of heavy bronze with a rigid, pleated shade. I have to turn it on, even in daytime, because my office has no windows or natural light. The lamp bathes my work area in a soft pool of golden light, leaving a dusky darkness all around. It reminds me of scribes working by candlelight, their quills scratching against the paper as they write.
The bookshelf on the wall behind me is more recent. My husband offered it to me after he sold his business and no longer needed it. It houses books on horses, writing, personal development and a small selection of favourite novels.
I am happy writing in this space I call my own that’s filled with little reminders of the people in my life.