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Kansas City MO 64131






Cindy Maddera


I feel like I've been doing less writing in this space. I mean, I've been putting words here sure, but it seems like it's mostly been tales of whoa or laundry lists. I also have a serious sense of deja vu in writing that last sentence. It's been said that 2013 was the year the blog died, though most of us bloggers will still proclaim like Whoville towns folk that "we are here". It's just that social media outlets like Twitter and Tumbler have taken our eyes away from long scrawl. Given us short attention spans. I was raised by a man who never could tell a story in 140 characters. I suppose I picked up the same habit. I rarely have anything to say in 140 characters. At least nothing entertaining. Hell, I rarely even post a facebook status. I kind of feel like you need to be reading this post with a southern drawl. The Help is on the TV. I know. There's controversy. I have issues with the book, but the remote is on that end of the coffee table. You know, that end of the coffee table that's too far to reach because you mopped floors, got a massage and have had few Fat Tires (I'm about to find out how well Thin Mints go with that Fat Tire). It's that far. Any way...long winded tales and blogging. I'm going somewhere with this. I swear. I'm not good with one liners. Obviously.

This blog has been so many things to me over the years. I've used it as my sounding board in my political days. It's been my place to keep track of the happiness and good in my life. It has been my therapist as I travel through the winding road of grief. It has been my teenage diary as I tripped around dating. It has been my sounding board in promoting charities and causes I believe in. But most importantly, it has been my creative outlet. And for someone who never saw themselves as creative of any sorts (still doesn't), this creative outlet has become crucial to my daily sanity.

Last week, when I sat down to write my usual Love Thursday I vaguely remembered that this is my creative outlet. I made a conscious effort to write something that wasn't about chore lists or sorrow. I also made a conscious effort to write something that wasn't grasping at an attempt to prove that I am happy. I sat down and wrote about tulips. And sure, it wasn't any great prose, but it was something. It was something that felt good. I'd like to keep that up. I'd like to drop that fear of constantly having to write something for this space. That sounds funny to say, but it's like having a half empty shelf and instead of waiting until you've found the right piece to display on that shelf, you just put whatever there. It leaves one dissatisfied. Maybe I should stop forcing it and just write. What would that be like?

Whatever it is, I bet it tastes better than Thin Mints and beer.