Branching Out

I’m convinced the ancient Greeks got the whole Medusa thing wrong. Those aren’t snakes coiled about her head. They’re bookworms.

Someone recently pointed out to me that I have been less than egalitarian in my focus with this blog.  It seemed to her that I’d been posting heavily on my passion for running, at the expense of my love for writing.  (I can only assume my critical friend felt ranting had been given its full due.)

Not being one to fear an honest assessment of my work, I took the matter into consideration (but not before reminding the assessor to be a little less free with her opinions when addressing her elders to avoid being thought impertinent).  She was not entirely wrong.  In fact, she was a lot right.

Standing at this crossroads, I faced two options.  Stuff this flourishing blog back into the confines it had clearly outgrown, or give it room to grow naturally and hold on for the ride.  My writer friends out there know this was an easy choice to make.

So I’m branching out.  Today I launched Ramshackle and Brambly, a blog devoted purely to my literary work.  Now those of you who prefer to read about running can do that here without too much interruption, and those who’d rather read than speed will have a place to do so freely and without that seed of guilt in the pit of your gut over the frequently sedentary requirements of the writer/reader lifestyle.

But far be it from me to break up the party.  If you’ve enjoyed what you’ve experienced here, there’s a good chance you will continue to do so, even if you’re not into the fitness thing.  I encourage you to stick around.  Likewise, if you live for the thrill of the race and the wind in your face, and you just can’t do without the glory and pain and other melodramatics we runners love to boast about in memeform (damn right I’m trademarking that one), you just might enjoy the excitement a good story told well can offer~ and may even be game enough to take a detour through the poetry wing every now and then and add a little variety to your online routine.  You don’t train for that marathon on the same route every day, do you?  Why should exercising your brain be any different?

Growth is change.  No way around that.  I’ll be shaking things up a little around here in the next few weeks, but don’t worry.  The upheaval will be minor.  Meanwhile, please feel free to head over to the new site and explore my new roost.  Maybe click the follow button and stay awhile.  Hopefully you’ll feel it was time well spent.  I’m trying out a new moniker over there, as well; drop me a comment and let me know if you think I should make the switch official or hold onto Runoffwriter just a little while longer.

As always, thanks for reading, running, and ranting with me.  And here’s to writing the next chapter.

You Can’t Always Get What You Want

When I was a kid, I made a mission out of ruining all my mother’s surprise Christmas gifts.  Not the gifts, themselves, of course, but the surprise factor.  I felt so smart breaking her heart.

Okay, perhaps that’s an exaggeration.  But it did upset her every time I figured out what she had so carefully hidden.  As for me, surprise on the day, surprise a week before, didn’t matter.  My mom always picked winners, and she also made sure that whatever we’d put on our wish lists ended up under the tree come Christmas Eve.

@russellcrowe and Other Updates Not of Note

So Russell’s deadline has come and gone, and rather than responding to my hella fascinating reply to one of his tweets about how many km he racked up cycling one day last week (I tweeted, “JEALOUS” {you’d respond, right?} not because I’m a cyclist- don’t even own a bike- but just because bike riding is fun, as is any outdoor exercise, and I was unable to engage in such pursuits that day), I say, rather than responding to my admirably succinct, drama-free portrayal of genuine emotion, he’s decided to retweet this little gem, from one “joanna:”

The Few, the Proud, the Marine Who Turned my Day Upside-Down

Sometimes Novella can be a little b…rat.

I do a lot for the girl. To be quite honest, if it weren’t for me she wouldn’t even be here. I try to deal with her nonsense and take it in stride, stand by her and help her to keep moving forward, but sometimes I just want to tell her to shut her back-talking mouth and go to her room and sleep for a day or two.

She sleeps a lot, actually.  Far more than most kids her age.  She never seems to get enough, though.  Not to the point where I can look her over first thing in the morning and say, “Yes, she’s well-rested and ready to jump into the world!”  She always seems to need just one more hour- maybe two- heck, why not half the morning?  I’ve got laundry, committee-work, grocery shopping, gift-buying/making, house cleaning nothing to do.