Hey, maybe it will be a good thing down the line. Whatever that means...

As a writer, maybe I should start a blog. At first, I told myself I don't need one. I think now I still don't need one. I don't usually base anything on what I need. I go with what I feel like doing. Right now, I feel like letting people look over my shoulder as I write my stories. Let a little of myself out like toddler with his pants down. Look Mom, no willy!
My writing is precious to me. They reveal so much about me. The inner workings of an introverts mind and the weaknesses and strengths of my heart are so vulnerable for public eye. But hey, I'm feeling generous. Lucky you! If I show you mine, will you actually look at it? My thoughts not my willy, you pervs. (I don't have a willy.)

This is a big step for me.
Writing this blog is already hard. I never tell anyone anything about myself. I bet by the end of this blog you're learned nearly nothing about me. I'm covering my computer screen after I've invited you to peek. How unfair.
Does this mean I've failed already? Can I really illustrate in words the vivid mini movies that come about in my head every waking moment of my day? Can I trasfer my day dreams that will eventually be a novel? I sure hope so or the stories I've already written are just words on a white screen. I hope I can translate better here than I do in person. I'm the typical shy violet, laughing at the jokes I don't get. Singing to my own little tune while you describe your troubled relationship. Conversations with me consist of you talking and me complimenting your smile; anything to hit the ball away from my side of the court. People who know me, simply don't. People who want to get to know me won't. That's the truth. I know a lot of people say that and you can pretty much say that about anyone. Who really knows anyone? I hope this will help you get to know me.
I'll let you in.
I'll let you look over my shoulder as I write out my dark secrets, my fantasies and the weird randomness that is Mandy. You might as well read this while you wait for the laundry to dry or your while you wait for your mocha latte. While you do that, I'll frantically rack my brain for material that seems to have slipped my mind when I sat in this chair to write this blog, cursing my head off because I can't find my saved work. Crap! Did I spell plethera correctly.
(No.)
CRAP! Where's the online dictionary link I saved. I don't remember the icon. Did I erase it by accident! AAhrg! (Who spells 'arg' wrong?)
Why do I call myself a writer? because even a three year old can spell arg correctly. Right?
(what is wrong with me.)
This a big step for me. (I said that already.)
Thank you. (I'm welcome.)
Where was I...
My writing desk is where my thoughtful universe culminate into the aspects of my writing. I want to share that with you. My characters are me. That in itself is scary. My fictional stories are just another place I love to escape to. My head is in the clouds most of the time. So I might be eating lunch, but I'm actually making love to my lover. I know that's creepy if you actually know me, but don't worry I have other characters. I can be a cat prowling the alleys behind an antique shop. That's not crazy right?
(Crazy is the writer who wrote a murder scene and loved every second of it. Readers take note.)

Can I really commit to this? I hope for the readers sake.
(I can)
Thank you me.
(I'm welcome. If I can write a six book series in two years, five starting points to new stories, and a plethora of character profiles than you can write one blog.)
YES!

(Yes indeed.)