The Minnesota Farm Woman

It is both a blessing and a curse to be a writer. The blessings come with being able to express yourself and in making people laugh…or cry. I choose the laughing end of the spectrum most of the time, at least I hope I do. We have spent the last few weeks doing some remodeling at our house. HE did the manly stuff such as tearing down, hauling supplies, and building up. With the amount of money and time that it took, you would think we were building a castle fit for the Queen of England instead of remodeling our laundry room. The painting was up to me. Not that he can’t paint, but HE CAN’T PAINT. At least not to my specifications, so I do all the painting around here, mostly because I’m too cheap to hire someone. Did I tell you how much I hate to paint? I would rather do just about anything else except clean out the chicken coop. One would think that using two gallons of boring white primer on both the walls and the ceilings would be kind of like having a blank slate in which a writer could come up with new and exciting ideas. I had plenty of ideas, but none that ended up more than a few sentences. When I switched to the two lovely shades of green, one would think that a writer could come up with colorful and cheerful stories that would make people laugh. Nope. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way. It’s not that I couldn’t write, but I COULDN’T WRITE. I was almost desperate enough to ask HIM to take over the painting. This writing stuff kind of happens like magic for me. I may start writing about one subject, and another might pop into my head and my fingers start flying across the keyboard. I hate to describe it like voices in my head, but it is kind of like that. Each story usually only takes about 30 minutes to write but two hours to edit…and edit…and edit again. I finally give up on editing and nervously hit the “publish” button, certain that it is all wrong. Then, I always find a mistake. Always. It is kind of like finding those drips and splotches in my newly painted room. The place and time for writing have to be just right, also. A Sunday afternoon, computer in my lap, Chihuahua vying for lap space, and the TV on, but only for background noise. Happy thoughts, and certainly nothing hateful like painting on my mind. So there you have it. An explanation for all the “reruns” you have endured this summer. I thought I would squeeze this story in before I start my next project: Painting the house. The entire house. On a ladder. Did I tell you how much I hate to paint? It’s during times like these that I wish the painting would happen like magic. Either that, or for a few days, I wish I were the Queen of England.