My fellow-writer-types have been doing it for, what?, bytes now? Blogging away for all the world to see. About anything. And everything. From world travels to world views and beyond. I mean, that IS the point of blogging, isn’t it? At least that’s what my literary agent, publisher and editor told me, what?, terabytes ago?
“It’ll increase your platform,” one said to me. Platform? Say what?
Hadn’t she figured out that the only platforms I seriously care about are the four-inch studded puppies on those outrageous, I’ll-embarrass-the-kids “Kiss” boots I bought eons ago when I was perimenopausal and on the cusp of God-knows-what?
“And it’ll majorly-increase your readership and book sales,” said another, not quite believing what I’d told her from the editorial get-go: “I am very likely a one-book-wonder, honey. Don’t expect anything more than that from me.” Duh.
But then, like one of those Hot Flashes from Heaven that I write about in my book by the same name, I heard it.
Well, actually, I read it. An invitation. An all Hot-Flashes-from-Heaven-like e-mail-invite from a smokin’ hot midlife women’s website that was burning up cyberspace with its ginormously-growing group of hormonally-challenged viewers, I mean, readers. Whatever. You get my drift. It was growing faster than the chin hairs trying to sprout on my face. Far faster than any magazine I’d ever written for in my freelance days. And they wanted me on board. As a meno-muse, so to speak. A midlife-maven. A for-real “rockstar-gone-wordsmith” blogger (without a blog—or did they miss that teensy-tiny-little factoid?)
I doubt it was my spiderweb veins and crow’s feet that enticed them. I don’t even think it was the purple Harley-Davidson I’d been riding with those notorious Kiss boots ever since my estrogen levels dropped below sea level. (Although, on second thought, Lord only knows there’s nothing that inspires a midlife woman more than the thought of an 800 lb. vibrator!)
No, it really simply boiled down to my random posts on their site that covers the things I chat up with my girlfriends–you know, like, uh, empty nests, empty ovaries and sometimes even empty hearts, heads and beds. Midlife junk. The stuff the “golden” years are actually made of, even riddled with. Not the Suzanne-Sommers-Polyanna-perfect version. But the dripping-with-real, I’m-older-than-dirt dirt. The crud we can be tempted to pay a psycho-therapist or a pharmacist to fix when all we really need is another woman to hear us out. Empathize. Sympathize. Then jerk our chain back to what’s even more real than what we think is the dirty reality: Aging, while it sorta-sucks, is also rich with life lessons one simply doesn’t, can’t, learn when skin is youthful, boobs are high and bodies are tight.
Now THAT is something I feel so passionate about I could write about it all day long! Matter of fact, looking at the clock, I guess I just did. Son of a gun! I think maybe this—-the drivel you’re reading now–could maybe, just maybe?, qualify as a pass-able first blog? And I might just have a reason to yes to their query that I write for them? Could it be?
Okay then. If that IS the case–that I’ve actually written my first (gasp) blog—where IS that blasted “publish immediately” button? I mean, that IS whatcha do with these blog-thingy’s, isn’t it?……and, btw, somebody let that midlife women’s website know they just might have gotten more than they bargained for! Oh, and while you’re at it, will someone turn on a fan? Dudette, it’s hot in here!