Uninvited

I had a writing workshop this morning. This small statement holds a large amount of inadequacy.

I enjoy the workshops, and am deeply grateful for them. They have helped me a great deal. But they have also showed me the ways in which I am lacking, and the thing that always brings me up short is the realization that, not only am I lacking in these ways, but I might not be able to make up for it.

This morning's workshop was on article writing. I had been entertaining some idea of doing freelance writing, trying to "get my name out there", build some writing credits. I have a journalism background, way back in the mists of time, so I thought I would just polish up some rusty skills and hey ho, away we go. I either forgot, or blocked out, how miserably bad I was at print journalism. My strengths were in broadcasting (even now, I can summon up a Broadcaster Voice that never fails to make people laugh with its accuracy - it was my party piece for a while). So. Yeah. I'm bad at article writing. I understand the concepts, I get the examples, but my pen hovers over my paper and I'm crossing out six words to every two that make the final copy, and I am painfully aware that it is still not right. I'm just not good at it.

I really do not intend to throw a pity party here. I had a good day. But it was also a day of realizing my limits, and confronting the sobering thought that I may have more limits than is good for me.

L got her first phone call from a friend today, and it was from her "boyfriend" from preschool. The love these two have for each other is both touching and amusing. She was so pleased that he called her. She gushed out, "I love you!" before asking him if he was coming to her birthday party. He is. When they were hanging up, she said, "I love you too", so it was good to know that her feelings are reciprocated. She was so excited afterwards that she jumped up and down for a solid minute.

My view of the screen is getting more and more blocked all the time by the gradual encroachment of my cat on my lap. He's 9 years old this month, and his heart murmur is making him age a bit more quickly, I think. I'm pretty sure he has arthritis in his paws. He's a crotchety old bastard, a far cry from the fuzzy grey kitten who used to play peekaboo and box with his reflection in the mirror. I think I'll go and let him know I still love him just as much as I did back then.

A good day. But all in all, a little on the bittersweet side.