The day I broke the blog

Well, it appears I broke the blog today. I attempted to update something or other without the assistance of a professional, and I reached what I believe they call “the WordPress white page of death”. I concur. I felt as if I died a small death right then and there when I hit a blank white screen and couldn’t retrieve any of my posts. I told my husband that between the apparent loss of all of my writing, the steady stream of writing rejections I receive, and the fact that I just scrapped nearly 10,000 words on my current work in progress, I took this as a sign that I should give up writing for good.

He suggested I try therapeutic massage instead. When I realized this was not a suggestion to head to the spa to overcome my blog’s near death experience and the decimation of my writing dreams, I stood behind him and rubbed his back while he attempted to fix the problem. Hours. It took hours, and the blog still looks a little wonky and unfinished. We’re working on it.

All of this internet nonsense comes on the heels of my leaving a new-ish Kindle at our previous hotel (one and 1/2 hours away), as well as my inability to distinguish between a.m. and p.m. on the family calendar, leading to all sorts of scheduling hullabaloo. The only words I have right now are “I’m sorry”, but they feel awfully small in comparison to the mess I created over the last few days.

While we’re displaced from home and traveling to a new location every couple of days, I suspect I’ll have to use these words often. I realize now how heavily I rely on routine, on my little lists, and my daily rhythms to keep our lives humming along. I can’t function well without them. I need the slow stretch of time during the quiet hours, the early mornings while the kids sleep, the bedtimes and bible story routines. Right now, I feel as if I’m living with a bunch of caged monkeys in the zoo.

Once my husband restored most of the blog, I took it as a sign I might have a future in writing after all. It’s also possible the cramp in my hands caused me to realize I am ill-suited for any other career path, especially any form of masseusery, scheduling, or technology. I have words and a few mildly amusing stories. And for today, the white page of death doesn’t own me.

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When was the last time you had to say “I’m sorry”?

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