Why does anyone write a blog?

Well, it is often to keep a record of dates, and this past week has been a bunch of dates worth recording. Pandemic, politics, civil unrest, and a year like no other is a good reason to want to set a record.

For me, this past week was the day I published by book. This is something I worked on as a teenager, toiled through to write longhand in my 20s, typed in my thirties, ignored through most of my 40s, and now, at 50, I'm ready to tackle it head on.

A summer at home and a good friend were reasons enough to finally nail the problems and fix the formatting. The framework was sound, but it needed new wallboard, some new wiring, and a clean coat of paint. The finished product looks and feels fresher than any has is in years. It's done, it's homey, and it's comfortable.

Loving a book for love's sake is a mistake a lot of authors make. You grow to not see the splintered boards or the small stain on the ceiling where the water seeped in from the tub overflowing upstairs. You tolerate the odd smell that seems to have sunk into the carpet permanently. It's time for a change, but the effort to do it seems daunting.

However hard it was to gut this book and fix some of the egregious issues, the effort seems to have paid off. I like the new book even more and am admiring the paint job, the new trim, and the little tasseled cords holding back the curtains.

Analogies aside, the book is stronger now than it ever was. More importantly, I love the book again. I am IN love with the book again. And the effort to get it there was worth all of the frustration, sweat, and tears that went into it.