Whatever gene it is that allows a person to envision, design, and create something in their mind and then execute it in the 3-dimensional world, I was not given. It hit my sister (www.sugarintheraw.blogspot.com). It even hit my mom, although she does not bother to utilize this skill very often.

I’ve written novels. I’ve designed fabulous scrapbook pages. I’ve made cutsey crafts for gifts that my friends “oooh” and “ahh” over as they sip the all-natural hand-juiced delicious smoothies that I’ve made for them. Again, all this in my head.

What do I have in real life? A shoebox full of scraps of napkins and index cards on which I’ve jotted ideas for my novel. A huge plastic tub of scrapbook supplies, pictures, idea magazines, and 2 mediocre scrapbooks. Disappointed looks from my friends as they open up their gifts: “Oh. You made it.” While drinking water (the only thing in my fridge besides some moldy cheese, grapefruit gone bad, and stale bagels).

I do not want to sound as though I’m complaining about the talents that I do have: I am a wonderful listener. I encourage others in their creative pursuits (for instance, Ellen was a mere scoffer of scrapbooks until I talked her into scrapbooking her wedding pics at which time she quickly and easily produced a lovely, simple, yet compliment-inducing book. While I watched.) I have the ability to make small children laugh. I can knit scarves and small baby blankets. I can diffuse tense situations. I can organize a charity tennis tournament (found this one out just this year). I rock at computer pinball games. I can fletch an arrow. I do not get grossed-out at the sight of blood. I can cram more dishes in a dishwasher than anyone else I know. I can tell you the plot line of any Star Trek: TNG episode within five minutes of the opening. I have the periodic table of the elements memorized to Argon.

So why do I focus on what is left undone?

Perhaps it’s because I truly do find joy in coming up with new ideas, sketching them out, planning in my mind how I will execute them. Unfortunately, following those ideas through to their quality conclusion is not my forte.


Little joy of the day: walking to the post office down the street and stopping in front of the drugstore that always pipes ‘80s New Wave rock through their outdoor speakers to sing along for a few minutes.