My kids seem a bit puzzled by their mom doing this blogging thing. Why? What's the purpose? Is anyone even reading what you write? You're so... old, why start now?
They.... um, may have inherited their mother's knack for truthfulness that borders on painful.
So, here's the gist of the answer to, why.....
Basically, I've written things all my life. I love writing. I've written two books (they're unpublished. With good reason. They're only mildly good and I'm too lazy to do the work of finding a real editor to tell me how to fix them. Also, I'm old.)
I currently hold two part time gigs - both of which allow me to write. For others. With absolutely no credit to me. (I'm okay with this, it's part of one job and the other, well - its for the best.)
But I think, I just, finally wanted to write - as me.
That maybe doesn't make sense to anyone else.
Picture you - doing whatever you do, alright - salesman, nurse... whatever you are. Now imagine you go to work every day and every sale you make, someone else gets commission on. Every person you help, the credit goes to the doctor or another nurse - just not you. No one knows you're even there helping.
That probably seems a bit overboard of a comparison. Like I said, me writing for others is what I signed on to do. I'm not whining. I get to write and be creative and come up with funny ditties and rhymes and I. freaking. love. it. And sometimes - I get to see that other people love it too. I see their engagements to posts I've written. I see them share these things and push like on these things and they have no idea that I was the person behind them. And that's okay.
Especially since I can add in a place where I do have a voice.
I can say things in my wild, wacky manner. I can make rhymes or use an overabundance of alliteration and here - I feel I'm like the scene in The Little Mermaid where the shell breaks and Ariel gets her voice back.
I channel my inner voice-less Ariel every time I write a post or tweet or story for a client. I try to be entertaining and witty and sometimes animals even sing to help me out (in Giphy form, but still) but I'll be damned if its not easier to just tell Eric (you, readers, you're the Eric in this story) who I am when I can use my words.