I Hate Blogging
I hate blogging. I bet I’m not the only one.
Like about a bazillion other people, I was told and believed that blogging is the answer. To marketing, to reaching out to others, to making $1 million. Hey, I saw Julie and Julia.
Anyway, I’m not sure if I really believed that blogging would make me $1 million. I don’t actually believe anything will make me $1 million. But I did assume that while blogging may not reach the masses of potential readers that I would like, it would at least be an easy way to connect with a few. After all, I’ve written five books. How hard could it be to slap down 300 to 700 words two or three times a week? I generate more words than that in Facebook statuses and texts to my daughters about dinner.
And I’m the boss! I can write whatever I want. I can even persuade Permelia to write about research topics that I need and use those as blogs.
In the past six months, I have dropped just about every ball in my care. I have been every bit the mess that you all would have predicted. I have procrastinated on many things, but none more consistently than this blog.
300 and to 700 words, my right ankle! Three times a week?
Sure, it sounds easy enough. But you try it. 
I found this photo, which I'm pretty sure is of a pen and an instrument for harakiri. Which basically means: Time to write your blog. Make a choice.
Asides from Permilia: What? Me marry?
It's all about eating bon-bons and watching my stories in the afternoon. Image via Wikipedia
Why did women so often agree to be part of the frequently treacherous journey to settle an untamed part of the country? The obvious answer is that their husbands had an adventurous spirit and, being male, made the decisions. Of course, there were undoubtedly some women who were in favor of the move. However, in that time and place, women really had few rights and little say-so. If they didn’t want to leave hearth and home for the unknown wilderness, their duty to their husbands demanded that they support his decisions.
Females were taught from infancy that they were relatively incompetent and their purpose in life was to prepare to be a proper homemaker. After she attracted a husband, she must serve him and make him happy. There were many rules and expectations for female behavior, and few had any relationship to what that female wanted. An author of the day stated that a female must understand that there was an inequality in the sexes. Men were to be the guardians and lawgivers , and also had the greater share of reason and resolution. It naturally follows that the man would know the best choices for his family – i.e. whatever he wants. And again, there were some men who were fair, loving, and considerate. But if not, society and the law did not protect the women.
So, the women went West, either with their husbands or following after. The journey was inevitably difficult and frequently dangerous. Upon arrival, their lives were more challenging that they ever could have imagined, and their brave husbands were applauded in the history books for settling the West.
Given those rules of life, is it any wonder that 11% of women born between 1860 and 1880 never married? This was the highest rate of unmarried women in American history. It was thought to be due to the growing number of women attaining college educations and the male view that college grads made poor homemakers, according to historical research. Apparently, the men simply couldn’t deal with acknowledging that a prospective bride had a functing brain and could still scrub a floor.
Win a free copy of Whither from Homestead Revival
Amy from Homestead Revival is one of the top homesteading bloggers around and has been kind enough to review my book, Whither Thou Goest, I Will Go. She is also doing a giveaway, where you can win a free copy!
Head over to Homestead Revival to read the review and enter the giveaway.
Make sure to check back on Thursday, as she will be hosting a detailed interview with me. You won’t want to miss it!
The Name of the Star by Maureen Johnson
I’m not that hard to scare.
Well, that’s not strictly true. I’m terrified of riding in airplanes or the Dumbo ride at Disney. In other words, I’m reasonably afraid of things that present genuine peril to my life.
But I’m not afraid of fictional things. I can see pretty much any movie, read any book, and the most I’ll feel is a mild foreboding if the good guys are rifling through the bad guys’ belongings and the bad guys are about to come in. I do have nightmares, especially since my husband died, but they are never about what I read or see.
Until the night before last, when I woke up filled with sick dread because Jack the Ripper was in my room. Even when I remembered where I was – my bedroom – and what was happening – nothing – I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I was about to be disemboweled.
So, thank you Maureen Johnson. What I thought was an interesting young adult novel really designed for younger audiences actually turned out to be suspenseful enough to imbed itself into my subconscious.
There’s almost no way to describe this book without giving spoilers, so I’ll just say Maureen Johnson has a great voice and wrote a book that’s captivating to me, the elderly widow, as well as younger audiences. Read this story; it has several surprises in store for you.
Introducing . . . Pernicious Corkscrew . . . Portentious Comedy . . . Possible Continuity . . .
No, that’s not right.
Pestering . . .
No.
Pounding Cranium — no. Wait. Wait. It’s here in my pocket.
**takes crumpled paper out and spreads it flat.**
Ladies and Gentlemen, may I introduce:
Permilia Cornell
Permilia is the historian who providing me with research for the Whither sequel I’m working on right now, and she has graciously agreed to share some of the most interesting facts about family life on the frontier with us. Permelia has a Master’s Degree in Family Development, and is passionate about the history of families and their unique stories. She is retired from The Ohio State University Extension as a Family and Consumer Sciences Educator.
So beginning next week, watch for her new blog series, Asides from Permilia.
Yay, right?
I am not defined by what you see when you look at me,
or my own reflection in the mirror.
I am not defined by your expectations –
Your approval or disappointment.
I am not defined by my failures, my successes,
my future or my past.
I am defined only as an irreplaceable child of God,
and by each moment that I cast aside the chains of measuring up,
and expose myself as the masterpiece He created in me.
Eighteen Years and Two Days
Marriage is messy. It’s not “happily ever after”–it’s fights about nothing that feel like something, different parenting styles, mothers-in-law, money troubles, morning sickness and labor pains. It’s resentment, hurt feelings, loneliness and impatience. It’s the terrifying aging process, two people constantly changing, long silences, moments of understanding and, in the end, almost always…one without the other.
