If I wrote something and nobody read it, did I really write it?

I sit before my computer once again trying to push out some great thoughts and fascinating syntax. I don’t really have a rhyme or reason to what I am writing, and wouldn’t my students laugh as they saw me stressing over a “free write,” something I assign to them without the slightest hesitation.

So what is my goal in writing a blog? Do I need to write ideas in black and white? What if I am the only one who sees them—does that count for anything? Is my goal to talk to myself? I do find it a humorous and a little significant that the spell-check thinks that when I type the word ‘blog’ I perhaps would like to use the words ‘bloc,’ ‘blot,’ or my favorite ‘blob’ instead.

I have been listening to Me Talk Pretty Some Day by David Sedaris in my car because a.) I am not a big fan of radio music which is mostly loudly-shouted advertisements and b.) I am addicted to listening to other people’s stories of their dysfunctional families. Even Tolstoy started one of his great Russian novels, Anna Karenina, with a quote about discontented families: Since Mr. Sedaris and a bevy of others seem to be publishing books and essays about their own crooked childhoods, why not I? My next goal will be to tell a story about my own family, but here’s a short anecdote for now.

I come from a very competitive family. I was always the oddball, the creative one, the sister who was a little different. To show you how desperate I was to come out first, just once, witness the following: I am the oldest of three sisters. My youngest sister was always the outgoing one. Jan was the class vice-president, the one with the boyfriends. The sister closest to me in age—Helen—was the talented one. She was ranked third from the top in her class for her GPA and she would dominate any and all games that she attempted. Tennis—she made varsity after picking up a racket one summer. Swimming—she was the fastest back-stroker on the team. Cards—I couldn’t even beat her at Go Fish, let alone Canasta.

One night, in our younger years, we had gotten into our pajamas and were getting ready to watch a little TV before our 9:00 bedtime. We all had a chocolate candy bar that we had gotten from our grandmother earlier that day. Candy was a rare treat in a family where the mom is a health food nut and the dad is a diabetic. But this night we were given a dispensation from my grandmother—a woman with a real sweet tooth. I knew the drill, I would usually gobble my chocolate down and be done with it. Jan usually finished hers next with no comments. But Helen was known for eating like a bird, for picking apart the delectable rectangles of the flat brown bar and finishing last as Jan and I looked longingly on. Helen loved to prance around while finishing her treat to tease us. This night was going to be different. I unwrapped the chocolate bar and surreptitiously stuck it into the elastic waistband of my pajamas. I quickly covered it with my pj top and turned to signal that I was finished with the candy treat—mine was all gone.

It seemed like an eternity before Jan and Helen finally finished their snack. Now I could pouch on them, retrieve my candy bar before their envious eyes and finish it off in front of them for once. As I mockingly asked, “Are you guys done already?” I was prepared to lift up my pajama top and reveal my prize and to finally enjoy eating the chocolate. I whipped my top up and to my dismay, the chocolate had melted all over my midsection. Instead of getting the last laugh, I gave them a laugh. Business as usual.