writing bad blog posts

I belong to a writing group. And they are all better at it than me. Most have had things published or at least have their feet in the real writing world while I just type away on my laptop while my kids watch cartoons.  Some of them have written for magazines, newspapers, taught writing classes, workshops and show up to our meetings with manuscripts in hand, while most of the time I have to ask if I can borrow a pen. And we try to hold each other accountable for writing. For posting. For improving. For moving forward. We make goals and check in each month or so. And there are much more to our goals than post numbers. And thankfully no one makes goals that have to do with stats or comments or followers….but we go around the room and they say things like 4 posts per week. And I say 10. Thinking it will be easy for me. Because usually it is.

But not lately.

And I do everything fast. I read fast. I write fast. I hit publish or send fast.

Which means I am messy and sloppy and have errors and put out a lot of bad posts.

And I’m starting to think that is ok.

And yes, I value quality over quantity. Usually.

But I am in a dry spell.
And not because I’m not chewing on stuff. I totally am. But it isn’t all stuff I want out here. And I have been busy. And had less computer time. And so I've been a little absent in this space. And the longer I wait to write a blog post it seems like the less I have to say.

It is holy week. And last year about this time I wrote something EVERY day. And a few of those posts sucked. But one or two were ones I was really proud of.

And today I read a blog that said the secret to being funny is saying a lot of unfunny things.  And if that is the case, I think I must be hilarious.

Also, I have lots of photographer friends. And when they take pictures of my kids they takes lots and lots of pictures. Sometimes hundreds. And one of those friends always says, that at the end of the day you just need one really good shot. That if you click enough times, surely there will be a good one in there somewhere.

And of course that applies to most things. In soccer, usually the team with the most shots on goal ends up with more in the back of the net. Stephen King had a whole wall papered with rejection letters.

And so maybe I should apply that to writing. Put down enough words. And some of them will be good. They don't all have to be keepers. That maybe the secret to being a good writer is writing a lot of really bad blog posts.

And what I wrote this time last year, that I don't think sucked at all....

Holy Thursday: Just Me

This morning I left my house at 6:11.

About 20 minutes earlier than usual ( ridiculous time to go to work I know, but that is a topic for another blog post).
And I pulled into my church parking lot.
An almost empty church parking lot.
I read in my church bulletin last week that they chapel would be open from 6-8 am for anyone who wanted to take communion on this Holy Thursday.


I love the act of communion and have been getting up early every day this week to observe Holy Week. And so I thought that this morning instead of sitting on my couch reading and quiet that maybe I should go to the chapel instead.


But after I pulled in, I immediately thought about turning around and getting a coffee instead. I was a little uncomfortable about the idea of showing up at church at 6:27 am.
And I didn’t know what to expect.
If this would be weird.
If I was supposed to say anything or do anything special that I didn’t know about.
And I worried about who would be there.
If there would be a lot of people, businessmen off to work, or those really religious types doing some serious prayer or a bunch of old ladies who couldn’t sleep. Or if I even had the right day.

It wasn't too late, I could still just go to Starbucks.
I had to keep telling myself to get over the awkward and just to go in.
And so I walked into the chapel.
Which was totally empty except for a minister in a robe reading in the front pew.
She welcomed me and told me to kneel at the altar.
Just me.


And she read aloud this passage from Luke 22:7-20.
For just me.


And she offered me the body and the blood.
Shed for me.

And in this moment it was just me.
And the realization of what Christ did for me in particular.
Not a church filled with people.
Or believers all over the wold.
But just me.
Shook me in my soul.


And I lingered at the altar a bit. And the pastor returned to her pew and reading. And I walked out to my car and wept for what Christ did for me.
Just me.
And you too.
Just you.