The Art of Maybe

Do you know how many drafts I have saved for blog ideas? Or actual blogs I just never posted?

Go ahead. Take a guess.












Thirty-two blogs.

I never realized how much I’ve wanted to say, but just don’t say until I look at that number. I’m sure there will be people out there who say, “well, why won’t you just post it then?”

See, here’s the thing.

We have freedom of speech. Everyone knows that it’s supposed to be a right.  BUT. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t come without consequences. You can’t just go around saying whatever you want to say and expect nothing to happen. Do you have the right to say it? Sure of course you do. However, once you put something out on the internet, it is there forever. Forever is a long time. And ONE thing… some simple thing…can change someone’s perspective on you.

“But Megan, stop caring what other people think about you.”

Honestly, that’s bullshit. It’s so easy to say for people who have anonymous blogs. I do think the majority of us deep down care what other people think about us. I sure do. I have opinions. LOTS of them. But is it worth sometimes coming off like a jerk just to exercise the freedom of speech? Not really, no.

Okay, I hear ya. “Well, if you aren’t even saying what you want to say, then are you even being real? Is this your fake personality.”

No. No it isn’t. I don’t write about things that are false. I don’t fake an opinion. I just chose what to write about and not write about… publicly. I have had plenty of conversations in person with family and friends that I would never post on my blog. It’s censorship of my blabbering mouth. Not a fake personality.

I’m not here to talk about huge world issues, specifically politics or religion. And I do think it’s very easy to stay away from those topics if I’m being truly honest; however, I think that fear still trickles down into the rest of my writing when it shouldn’t.

Maybe it is because I grew up before social media.

Maybe it is because I don’t really believe in my writing.

Maybe it is because I’m afraid people don’t really know my sense of humor.

Maybe I’m just straight up lazy.

Maybe I’m out of ideas.

I don’t know. But year after year I have some sort of an excuse to not keep up with my writing. (Or I do keep up and just not post it.)

There comes a time where all the maybes start defining who you are as a person. And it defines your writing style. All the maybes start becoming a firm no. “No do not post that.” “No you cannot say those things.” There are no longer any debates about what to do.

And you know what the irony is?

I like to write about wine, food, running, and travelling. And the occasional poem, which I haven’t shared in a very long time. Literally none of that is political or racial or controversial. Will people have opinions on it? of course. It’s the internet and people can’t scroll passed a meme about peanut butter and jelly without complaining about it. I do have thick skin when it comes to comments and corrective criticism. In fact, I always embrace it. When corrective criticism is actually that, and not “i’m going to tell you something mean just to be an asshole,” it really does help us grow.

What I’m saying is that maybe I just really don’t have an excuse as to why I’m a terrible blogger. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Hopefully I can pull myself together at some point to actually write from time to time!

Until then!


Weekly Writing Challenge: Backwards

This post is long overdue. It was a writing prompt from THREE weeks back. Yes, three. I managed to write only one phase at a time. I couldn’t’ go back and edit, so please excuse my many grammar mistakes, especially with tense.
This writing prompt (see here) challenged us to write a story backwards. I wanted to go out on a limb and write something very close to me. Enjoy.

Phase 4: Her End
A vegetable. She laid there in the hospital bed. So quiet. Peaceful. But her heart was numb. The oxygen tube wedged between her teeth distorted her smile. It had moved her teeth. That infuriated me. That’s not how she looks. But she was beautiful to me. We held her hands, squeezing harder in hopes she’d wake up, even though we knew better. She couldn’t come back. She was already gone. I imagined her looking down on us being pissed that we kept her on life support even though in her living will she stated otherwise. DNR. Do Not Resuscitate. But we did it anyway. We needed to be sure. As the oxygen machine stopped pushing oxygen into the tube, my Gramps clenched her hand, leaned over, kissed her on the forehead and whispered, “I’ll see you soon. I love you.” and she was gone. In that moment, I knew he did love her.

Phase 2: Recovery
Our ritual of visiting my Grama slowly became easier and easier. It’s never easy seeing someone you loved in the hospital. She was doing better though. Day by day. A very slow recovery, but a recovery nonetheless. My Mom and I would sit in her room, put on House and listen to her complain about the hospital food. “it’s so dry!!” She’d try to whisper in that loud whisper where everyone could still hear, but pretended not to. She wasn’t a subtle lady. But really, who enjoys hospital food?
She’d been laughing and doing much better, even though she talked in circles. But that would never go away. Dementia set in. That is not reversible. But at least she still had her humor. Conversations with her frustrated most people, myself included from time to time. Although, after a while, I’d just sit back and be thankful that she was alive and doing better.
“So what are you doing tonight, Pumpkin?” That was my nickname. I don’t recall when that started.
“Going to the movies. Should be a fun time.”
“Oh! Who are you going with?” She leaned closer to me as if her room was bugged by the FBI, since, you know, going to a movie is top secret.
“Just a couple of girlfriends.”
“How fun. What are you girls going to do?”
“We’re going to the movies.” I tried to hide any frustrations. She didn’t know. It wasn’t her fault.“
“What day are you going? Sounds like fun.”
“We’re going tonight.”
“Are you going with that boy you are seeing?” She winked.
“No, Grams, I’m going with my girlfriends.”
Typical conversations included recounting details numerous times in five different ways. We never ran out of anything to talk about, though. Talking in circles became normal; formulating thoughts outside the hospital room sounded strange. Linear conversations? What was that?

Phase 3: Reality
I couldn’t be happier that my Grams was going to be able to return home at the end of the week. My Gramps visited her every day. Relief sank in when I knew he would not be driving every day to see her.
My grandparents never once said “I love you” to each other. I never saw them hug or hold hands. I never saw any affection between the two. I often wondered if they still loved each other. They even slept in separate rooms. But “love” was not a concept I truly understood. I was only a month into my 20th year of life, but “love” never made sense to me. My Mom divorced my father when I was seven. I did not have a basis to really understand love between two people. I knew My Gramps had to love my Grams, though, as he somehow managed to drive accident free to the hospital. Every day. Every single day.
My Mom and I decided to stop in and see her one afternoon before heading out to finish our errands. We walked into the room: Gramps sitting in the corner chair reading the newspaper, the nurse taking my Grams’ vitals, and the TV blaring….
“Laverne?” The nurse yelled. My eyes froze at her hand pushing on my Gram’s chest.
“LAVERNE!” No response.
I stood there. Frozen. My Mom clenched my hand. “Get them out. Get them out.” the nurse yelled about us. The crash cart blurred by me into my Gram’s room. Nurses and doctors ran into her room. I only saw streaks of blue and white and grey running next to me.
The images in my mind reminded me of House. Many of those episodes look the same. Except House isn’t a real doctor. He couldn’t come to be an asshole, but save my Grama. He was fake. And this was not. It was real. And she wasn’t ever coming back.

Phase 1: The Beginning
I have a story to tell. One that I haven’t been able to tell in eight years without crying through. This is not a love story of husband and wife, but rather, the truth about why it’s hard for me to watch medical shows, walk into hospitals, see Grandparents taken for granted, and celebrate Christmas. I wish I could say this is a piece of fiction. But it is not. This is just a little piece of me.


Here are some other bloggers who participated in this challenge. I liked their posts and decided to share:

Tuesdays with Straylight

No glass slippers: just whips and chains

As promised, I said I would participate in the Seven Word Story contest provided by Straylight. I’ve been involved with the magazine since 2008. Since I’m exempt from submitting, I’ll be posting my seven word story on my blog every Tuesday. I encourage everyone else to submit, though!  For additional info on the contest, please check here for Facebook or here for Twitter.

Growing Pains? Try Writing Pains!

I want all the beautiful witty words trapped inside my head to escape and splatter onto a vacuous page as I think them—each word strategically placed creating perfect harmony between the paper, the words and the mind: the harmony swirls and spins creating its melody. It whirls around violently,
as swiftly as a freshly fallen red-orange leaf flutters in the Autumn breeze,
to create the perfect blend of content and character, sprinkled with a dash of humor. For without humor, words become nothing but a mound of letters: letters which lack emotion and feeling; they morph into dry and monotonous splotches of ink on paper. Phlegmatic words do not absorb meaning. I must choose my words carefully. The potency of the words bares the most meaning with the readers.
If I fail seducing my readers, my stories remain unread,
the appeal vanishes: it becomes incognito among the vast amounts of writers who somehow manage to coexist in the world. But it would be as if my words never existed.
Have you ever thought about what it would be like to not exist? Not in death. You’re alive. But not existing. Would it be like screaming in the middle of a crowd, but no one can hear you? No one can see you? Would you collapse to your knees in horror, dismissing the jagged rocks puncturing through you while the blood crawling out of your gash warms your chilled skin because, even then, you can feel the pain, but you do not exist?

But we cannot always have what we want.
Letters pretending to be words spew out on the page forming madness that not even I understand.
Content falls flat.
Then, the cursor becomes stagnant.
My unwritten words cannot seduce you.
I stare at a parched blank page: a page lusting for words drenched in meaning and character to fill the void. The creativity trapped within my brain will not sprinkle itself onto the paper; it cannot pry itself out of the nest it created.
My bloodshot eyes drift slowly upon the dollop of ripped out hair set neatly aside my coffee cup. I cannot remember if that was cup two or three. The pain trickles slowly down my spine—almost like maple syrup: it slowly weeps from top to bottom leaving a smudge of pain which refuses to leave—to my ass, which flattened from sitting on a hard bench. Oh, the wonderful signs of writer’s block!

Here I am.
Writing something.
Here you are.
Reading something.
I presume most people read to distract themselves from the pathetic emptiness of their meaningless, consumer-driven lives….*
Someone already said that.

“What now?” You ask.
Let me tell you this: once you’ve found a cure, please let me know.
I want to exist.







*From “10 Things I Hate About You.”