Last week we drove to Coos Bay to visit JB’s family, and although 400 miles (ONE WAY) is never going to be fun, it was probably the easiest trip we’ve had since becoming parents. As endless of a drive as it seems now with two older kids who can entertain and feed themselves, I can barely believe we survived it with babies. Babies who constantly cried, crapped, barfed, and generally required one person to spend 7+ hours hunched over their carseat trying to keep them happy. At least these days I can take a nap or even read a book, while the boys engage themselves in a vigorous singalong of Row Row Row Your—Diaper! HA HA HA STINKY Diaper! Row Row Row Your … Butt! AHAHHHAHAHAAAAAA Your POOPY Butt!

We came home to a $300 vet/boarding bill and a $1200 bill to fix my stupid car and during the 8453rd load of post-trip laundry I accidentally washed a Pull-Up and holy GOD you do not want to do that EVER and somewhere in the midst of unpacking all our shit and cleaning out the fridge and dealing with two hyper kids who had been cooped up in a car for 7 hours I realized for the millionth time that whatever it’s called when you go out of town with your kids, “vacation” is most definitely not the right term, but even so, oh, it was so nice to get away. I just wish it didn’t take us so long to get there.








I’ve spent nearly ten years writing blog-type entries on a regular basis, and as such I don’t know anything about character development, plot, or stringing together much of anything longer than 1000 words.

My character names are always terrible. As if they’ve been picked out of a baby name book. Which they are.

I spend half my day trying to meet writing deadlines. If I have one more word-related obligation hanging over my head I will surely ruin the last bit of pleasure I get from this activity.

Whenever I try to write something that takes more effort than reporting on Justin Bieber’s latest haircut, the children invariably sense my attempt to achieve some sort of focus, and that’s when they attack with the hand-carved prison shanks.

A book? Do you know how long that is? What kind of madman just sits down and writes page after page after page—my god, they don’t even have COMMENTS along the way.

I tried to write something a couple years ago and it was horrible. Just. Horrible. I hated it. And I hated myself a little, after I gave up on it. Even more than I hated myself during it, for sucking at it so much.

See, it’s disheartening and awful to attempt to write something, thinking this is the one thing you’re supposed to be at least a little bit good at, only to have it take like five hours to painfully crank out half a paragraph, which, by the way, is a total piece of dogshit. Why would I want to put myself through this? It’s not even FUN. It BLOWS ASS.


What if I took this fiction idea I’ve been kicking around and just started working on it, instead of whining about how hard it would be? I bet that would feel better than procrastinating with a blog post about how I probably shouldn’t even try because god, there are a million reasons why I can’t do it.

Next Page →