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by Gloria Richard

My Glob. I think B-L-O-G. My fingers type G-L-O-B.

Until I become glob savvy, until I create a glob identity, until I write a glob article without mind-numbing angst, I choose to let the word stand as typed. I believe it’s a subliminal message from the Cosmos.

A Get-Your-Act-Together message.

But, how?

How do I cross to the Enlightened Side–the side occupied by fellow bloggers who whip out an article (or two or three) each week with apparent ease?


Sherry Isaac, my CP, writing buddy, friend, author of STORYTELLER, and fellow MAGGIE finalist (shameless PIMP alert!) forwarded an article—Seth’s Blog: Talkers Block. I had an epiphany when I read his short pep-talk to the nail-biting muse within.

I do not suffer from Talker’s Block. I often speak without benefit of a fully engaged brain. Sadly, I have no delete key when unguarded nonsense spews from my mouth.

The highly technical term for this phenomenon is Brain Fart.

My b-l-o-g is my voice in cyberspace. It is not War and Peace. It is not a thesis. It is not a stage for a Miss Cyber-verse competition.

I will settle for Miss Congeniality and (of course) World Peace.


If I write it, they may visit. If they visit, they may like it. If they like it, they may follow.

Today I choose to write it.

“Write what?” I ask myself.

“Anything. Write about anything that pops into your head. Just stick your toe in the free-writing water and give it a swish.”


I have no big toenails.

Okay, this is not an epiphany to me. It’s a topic. Go with me here.

A quick reread to this point left two phrases dancing the hokey-pokey in my brain. “Stick your toe into free-writing water” and “brain fart.”

The topic invented itself. PLUS, I have widgets of wisdom to share. Consider it a public service announcement.

Do not accept a podiatrist’s final appointment on the final workday of the year. If you take that appointment, and arrive to find office staff sipping champagne from plastic stemware, go home, soak your toes and add “fix toes” to your New Year Resolutions.

If you choose to stay with the podiatrist, accept the valium drip, plastic glass
of champagne and local anesthesia. You can better justify your “Hmmm? I
suppose,” acceptance of the tipsy podiatrist’s advice to remove your big toe nails (and kill the root), so you will never again suffer from ingrown toenails.

There I’ve done it. I’ve written about nothing and something in less than an hour.

Bonus! My topic has an HEA. I recently discovered a salon experienced at constructing fake toenails. I now get ten cute tootsies with my pedicures. For the record, they will not prorate pedicures based on the number of nails painted.

I know. I’ve asked.


Do not name your new toenails. It makes saying goodbye painful. Fred and I found Ginger floating polish down in my bath water. Fred rarely breaks into spontaneous dance. When he does, I look like a horse pawing the ground with one hoof. Worse. I snort.

Take or find a topic-specific picture. Make something up. Put yourself out there. Leave no fear untouched.

Edit and post the dang article before you find your mind.

Whew! What a relief. After this article (completed during a sixty minute write-a-thon challenge with Carole St. Laurent and Sherry Isaac), I am free to post sans angst. Globby Gloria left the premises!
SO! How about you? Are you a globber or a blogger? Tell a tale of your own or just say “HI!” WE LOVE COMMENTS here at BETWEEN THE SHEETS of paper.