Allow me to re-introduce myself

Hello my name is...
Hello my name is… (Photo credit: criana)

Blogging Again – What Is There To Talk About?

It’s been a little quiet on this lil-o-blog of mine. Sorry readers for the hiatus but really there was nothing to talk about. In fact, I’ll get you up to speed right now:

Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

While I don’t expect that core string of that pattern — work. eat. sleep. — to go away for quite some time I am happy at the prospect that my new job presents: time after work for me to continue having misadventures and to contently ramble on about my silly observations.

Said another way: I see more time to write again — blogging, short stories, novels, poems. And this is very good for my soul.

Who Am I? What’s This Blog About Anyway?

Great, great questions. I follow many bloggers and they must be more Type-A than I as they all seem to have themes and stick to them: adventures as a new mom, someone who loves to cook, someone who loves to eat, someone who likes to try things out on Pinterest.

I guess my theme would be a rambler or someone who tries new things for better or worse. Eh, too long. Guess I was born to be a rambling woman. Kinda fitting — the Allman Brothers wrote Little Martha too and that is who I am; who I will always be: Martita.

Now for the purpose of this blog, well, it’s a grab-bag of things. While not quite a journal (I’ll spare you. Be grateful.), it’s more the after-math of what happens when I follow Red Smith’s sage advice: “You simply sit down at the typewriter, open your veins, and bleed.”

Upcoming Projects And Goals

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Checking things off the ol’ “to do” list. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I do have goals. Some small and achievable and others not so small and certainly achievable but maybe more time consuming. And wouldn’t you like to know what they are? Maybe not.

Now don’t get offended reader, in fact, I’m glad you’re here taking time out of your busy day to read my silly little blog — it makes me feel special that my words/posts/observations matter to you and together we have found some common ground.

However, I have looked back in to my archives and have seen moments where I’ve called on you to keep me accountable. To let me know when I’m not doing the writing prompts or not writing regularly. What I’ve learned: a.) I can’t count on you and truly b.) it was never your responsibility, and really I can’t keep myself accountable?!

Actually, the real reason for my not sharing my goals from weight loss to growing as a writer, I’ve learned that it’s best to keep my mouth shut. Derek Sivers can explain it better:

But don’t worry, I’ll be ready to share the successes or misadventures of these new goals!

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Grandfather’s Typewriter

Today starts a new and exciting journey where I’m holding myself accountable to write at least 15 minutes a day. What a great way to start the day!

Writing prompt #1: Close your eyes briefly. Think of one object in the room and focus on it without opening your eyes. Recall as much as you can. Then write as much as you can about the object.

The Result: Grandfather’s Typewriter

My grandfather’s typewriter: my mother’s father. The doctor. The man I’ve never met because of a motorcycle accident that left him alive but with a steel plate in his head and is somehow correlated to his death in a car accident. An untimely stroke perhaps. And as a result my mother detests motorcycles.

Well, it was his typewriter. I’m not sure whether it was used to write letters, poems or prose. Or maybe my mother, younger then, pounded on the keys.

Its certainly seen better days. My grandfather’s typewriter is green, as I mentioned, but not a proud, royal forest green. A phlegmy, sickly faded green. Faded as if it was forgotten for several decades.

But the base is more indicative of its neglect. A cardboard base that the typewriter appears to be glued on, is crumbling in places and in others the dust is melded in to the lovely piece of machinery.

My grandfather’s typewriter certainly doesn’t work — the keys stick to themselves and if a letter is pressed the leg that would have come rushing down on paper now emerges hesitantly.

I don’t recall how I know about my grandfather’s typewriter. I never saw it on display in Abuela’s house. Maybe it lived with Tia Ana. However I do recall when my mother called to tell me the typewriter was found and would I want it?

A typewriter is a relic that all writers should have in their office. But add the enigma of my grandfather, who he was and how he might have used the typewriter — yes, yes, I must have it.

Snapshots of my grandfather's typewriter