It’s snowing here in Portland, Oregon, and I’m wondering whether or not to start a blog. Django – my eighty-two pound, chocolate, standard poodle- doesn’t care. He’s been hinting at other activities all day with barks, yawns, groans, hopeful looks, nudges, playbows. I’ve been ignoring him to work on this fledgling website, respond to a literary journal interested in one of my essays, send another essay on its first submissions round, eat lunch, answer phone calls, wash dishes, read some blogs to see if I really want to become one of millions sharing the minutiae of everyday life.
It’s 3 pm. I’m eager to work on a short story that’s been taking shape over the last nine months. I look outside. A mix of snow and rain is falling. Should I wait for temperatures to drop again, so we can walk through proper snowflakes (so rare in Western Oregon)?
Django just wandered into my office and flopped down beside me with a thud and a sigh. His answer is clear. My answers are rarely so clear. Perhaps I can offer regular musings on this: how to balance a passion for writing with desires to breathe fresh air, observe plants and animals, dance, play music, bake bread, travel – all the activities that fuel my writing.
I’ll see how it goes. But for now, I’ll heed Django’s call to the wilds of our local park.