Reading & Friendship {Love Story} Written by ARWB February 2012 Blogger of the Month, Gina Knuppenburg of Desperately Seeking {Gina}.
I’ve been an avid reader for as long as I can remember. My summers were spent with my nose buried in a book. While my real-life friends were outside playing, I was inside with my “book friends.” My parents took us camping every June and while my brothers loaded the camper with fishing poles and rafts, I stacked piles of books to hold me over our week-long camping adventure.
In my late twenties, while I was busily preparing to move out of my childhood home, I had a difficult time deciding what to do with the many boxes of books I had accumulated over the years. I had collected two series in particular that I had a hard time parting with: Ann Martin’s The Babysitter’s Club and the Sweet Valley High series. I know it seems silly now but I felt like I was parting with dear friends. Ultimately, I decided to sell the books to a used book store for credit. I said a quick good bye to my old friends and moved on.
Sometime last year I got a sudden urge to revisit some of those book friends. I requested a copy from an online paper back swapping site that I am a member of and reacquainted myself with those childhood friends. They hadn’t changed a bit!
Last week I came across a complete set of Sweet Valley High series in a thrift shop. I have to admit that for a moment, I contemplated buying the whole lot. I settled for reading a few chapters there at the dimly lit, dusty store. It was a quick visit and I left with a smile {I also read a few chapters of later books that hadn’t been in my collection}. I also left wondering where my own books had gone to. Had they found new homes? Did their new owners look at my loopy signature inside the front cover of each of those books and wonder who and where I was?
I think that my love of reading is directly related to my love of blog reading and why I appreciate this forum as much as I do. ARWB has introduced me to so many new friends: friends I haven’t met {a lot of you!} and some that I have been lucky to meet in person.
As February comes to a close, I want to thank ARWB for inviting me to be a part of this community. And, I’d like to thank those of you who stopped by to comment. I appreciate your clicks over to my blog to say hi as well. Your friendship online and off has kept me company, entertained me, and has made me feel welcomed here in Arkansas.
For me, despite deep desire and prolonged effort, this remains a question: Children are the future?
My husband and I have been trying to have a baby for a few years. Sometimes this dream of ours has seemed more like a quest, in the literary sense. Our Holy Grail, our Golden Fleece is a child to love, raise and call our own. We have confronted many obstacles, if not literal dragons, in our path.
On this journey I have cried, I have blamed, I have questioned, I have prayed. I have been hopeful and depressed. I’ve done my research, and I received advice — good and bad, helpful and hurtful. I’ve been ashamed and secretive. I’ve decided to be as open as I can, and through blogs I have met many others who are trying to find their way to the same goal.
I have had my feet in stirrups, scopes through my bellybutton, dye shot through my fallopian tubes. I’ve taken Clomid, Femara, Metformin, my temperature. I’ve had five inseminations and zero positive pregnancy tests. Hubby has been checked out and shot up, all to no avail.
I’ve been fingerprinted and background-checked. I’ve frankly answered multi-page questionnaires about my upbringing and marriage. I’ve put check marks on forms asking whether I will accept a child who likes to set fires or defecates inappropriately, or whether it is OK if our child has AIDS or uses a wheelchair.
I still can’t answer whether children are our future. Being of modest means, in-vitro fertilization and private adoption seem out of our reach. We are at the mercy of a budget-friendly fertility treatment miracle or the public foster-to-adopt process, both of which we are pursuing. Both are frustratingly slow.
There is a chance our child has already been born, or perhaps not born but conceived. There is still a chance for a pregnancy of our own. I can’t know what is to come; on faith I just keep moving forward, keep fighting. Our quest continues. I can only hope the last chapter tells of a little child being tucked in to sleep in a bright-green bedroom.
M. D. is married with two fur-babies. She writes about trying to add to her family at Glitter & Rainbows.
Crayons and Old Songs. {Love Story} Written by ARWB December 2011 Bloggger of the Month, Stephanie Hamling, of Proactive Bridesmaid
I sat behind the tech as she took pictures. Measurements, diagrams, the dull “thumpthump…thumpthump” that ecohed in the small room — there it was, my daddy’s heart. The possibility that something could be wrong with it was as impossible as the fact that something I knew to be so boundless could fit on the monitor’s screen. “Thumpthump…thumpthump.
My Mom had called that morning with the news that they’d gone to the ER shortly after midnight. Dad’s arm had gone numb. They’d been running test after test. He was in his own room when we got there. A nurse was questioning him, “Do you walk much?” My brother and I laughed. My dad walks, hunts, fishes, helps Mom tend a large country garden, enjoys woodworking, and does just about anything his kids ever need help with. And I’d been feeling the guilt of that — repairing my roof, trimming my trees, hauling away the hundreds of rocks left as a legacy from a previous tenant — since I’d heard, wondering what part of that was the one thing that was too much. I’ll probably never know.
When I was small and sick, Dad would pull a rocking chair up to the fireplace and, old blue Kiwanis songbook in hand, cuddle me in his lap and sing to me. “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” was my favorite. It’s a shame none of us, my bothers nor I, got his singing voice. It is one worth hearing. We can all lay claim to having a few of his dance moves, though, even if we pale in comparison.
After an evening of coloring, the ornery six-year old me refused to pick up my crayons. With more than fair warning, Dad tossed them one by one into the fireplace. I was bitter about the loss of my favorite, wrapper-less, burgundy stub for longer than I care to admit. First I sat and cried. Then I picked up my crayons. I learned to take care of my things after that. And I learned that getting up and doing something is almost always better than sitting around crying. In retrospect, I bet those ten minutes were far harder on Dad than they were on me.
I recently got into my car, heading back to my house from Mom and Dad’s, and found the gas tank that had been sitting on “E” was filled to the brim. Dad. I walked out my door during a recent visit, and guess who was putting new blades on my windshield wipers? Dad. When he sat up to eat at the hospital, he offered to split his dinner with me because I’d been sitting with him for a few hours. Dad.
I could go on and on — the secret handshake, the games of Crazy Eights, the notes, the hunting knife that he happened to be sharpening when my high school boyfriend walked in the door. For some things though, there just aren’t words.
My Dad has taught me so many things, but, when it comes down to it, he taught me the one thing that trumps all. Love is a verb.
Stephanie, originally from Wonderview, AR, now lives in our state’s capitol. A freelance graphic artist and a local-food activist, she enjoys gardening, photography, and cooking. You can indulge in more of her musings by visiting her blog, Proactive Bridesmaid. Stephanie was Arkansas Women Blogger of the Month in December 2011.
Dear Mom,
I wanted to write you a letter to fill you in on all the things that have happened since January of 1996. First your granddaughter, Alia, has grown into a beautiful and intelligent young woman, but of course you knew she would be. I know the mother’s curse works because she is giving me fits about her grades. She just decided not to do homework the first 9 weeks of her freshman year, so we are dealing with that. You would love the punishment I gave her. I took away all her clothes, shoes and makeup, made her wear grey sweatpants and grey t-shirt for 9 weeks. The little snot is so beautiful she still had boys sniffing at her butt like dogs in a dog park.
You have another granddaughter, Browyn. She is 13 now, about to be 14. You would love her. She is my emotional and caring side, you know the one that cried everyday after school in the 5th grade. She is so affectionate and just wants everyone to get along and be happy. She went through this phase when she was in the first grade that she would ask people all the time, “when you die can I have (insert random object)” She wishes she had known you. I tell her all sorts of things about you, and I promise they are not all bad.
I tell the girls how you used to tell me if you kissed me on my elbow I would turn into a boy, and that to this day I can’t stand for people to get near my elbows. Alia blames you and I for the fact that she can’t stand people to touch her feet, because we both love baby feet.
I am sewing again, and trying to make a business of it, oh and I am calling it Sweety Darlin’. Dad thought it was a perfect name. I wish you were here to help me, you would have so much fun with how the Internet has created a unique venue for the random business person.
Remember when I was about 10 and you told me not to go into computers since they weren’t going anywhere and I needed to become an engineer. God I love telling that story to every A&M grad engineer I know, they die laughing. Hey I met Dr. Blacklock! He taught me too! It was so strange on the first day of his statics class he calls me up to the front and asks me if I was any relation to Darcia Norwood. I think my face went white when I said yes. I am thinking of getting my graduate degree and teaching college.
I promised I would get my bachelors and I did, not in engineering and not from A&M, but in construction from UALR. Close I swear LOL! Oh you may not know what LOL means! See there is this new way to use cellular phones that allows you to send brief written comments and it has created a whole new genre of English called text speak, and LOL means laugh out loud. That way lazy people don’t have to actually use the language they have been taught.
I fussed at the girls the other day about their penmanship, after reading an article that college professors are appalled at the poor penmanship and writing skills of high school students directly related to texting and using computers. So our technology is making us dumber! I try really hard to teach the girls all the useless things you taught me, and I think some of it is getting through, but I won’t know till they are older.
I miss you mommy. I want you to see all the things your granddaughters do and what they are becoming. I want to share it with you. I am sorry for all the horrible things I said as a teenager, all the things I didn’t know were so horrible. I am sorry that I thought you would live forever. You are my mommy and I love you even though you are gone. I spent hundreds every year giving for breast cancer research and have been genetically tested for the gene and I don’t have it, but I still get my boob smooshin on your birthday every year.
Love your only daughter, I promise to write more.
Felicia
You can call me Sweety Darlin’. I am a 29 year old mother of two teenagers, don’t argue! I love to sew and design and make things. If it goes through a sewing machine I am game! My kids are amazing when they are sleeping, and pretty decent the rest of the time.
Several months ago I noticed that the post theme for February was “Love Story”. I immediately started making plans to write a happy little post about my life in rural Arkansas and how much I love it. Then I was standing in my kitchen trying my best to perform the most routine of chores, and it hit me what I really love so much.
I grew up in a very structured household. You ate your food in the kitchen. You played with your toys in your bedroom. Holidays and other events were planned months in advanced. And you never ran through the house or spoke above a normal inside voice. I had great parents and a great childhood. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
I married nearly seven years ago. The two of us lived in our little house with our Jack Russell Terrier, Chloe. It wasn’t structured, but it was quite and simple. The most excitement was cheering for our Texas Longhorns (sorry Razorback fans) during big games.
Our perfect angel, Arlington (Ting), was born in June of 2009 and our life was turned upside down. Suddenly there was crying at all times of the day. Bottles and toys littered every room of our house. Cheering for our favorite team was no longer possible because either we were being quite so she could sleep or watching Nick Jr so she would be happy.
Here we are, 2012. Ting is two and a half years old and we are expecting a little boy in April. Our calm Chloe has gone blind and is constantly bumping into everything and barking at every single sound around us. We both work full-time outside the home so toys, clothes, and who knows what else lies scattered around our small house (which seems to get smaller each day).
As I stood in my kitchen Sunday afternoon, the Super Bowl was on the TV. I was trying to watch the game, cook chicken, prepare brownies, and wash a few dishes and a load of laundry – all at the same time. Ting was running around wide open singing, dancing, throwing dolls everywhere. I was doing my best to not trip over Ting and her toys. Chloe was barking her head off at every little bump we made. Hubby came home from work and was trying to talk on the phone. It was TOTAL CHAOS.
That’s when I realized, it’s the chaos that I love so much! I cannot begin to imagine my life as a quiet and organized life, and honestly wouldn’t want it that way. I love my loud crazy house. I love my chaotic life. I can’t wait to add another child to the mix… it’s going to be so much fun!!
Karen lives in South Arkansas with her husband and daughter. She loves reading and cooking and anything that involves spending time with her family. Her blog, Ting’s Mom, chronicles her daily life as a mom and wife, as well as an occasional review of products her family can’t live without.
Love, from the Bottom of a Backpack {Love Story} Written by Lisa Mullis of Frenetic Fitness
Several years ago I was in the puppy lust stage of a new dating relationship with a man who was “outdoorsy”. His closets held things like 4 season tents, down sleeping bags that compressed into sacs barely larger than my head, multiple backpacks, titanium cooking utensils and Gore-Tex hiking boots. My closets were full of slingbacks, pumps, ballet flats, clutches, totes, satchels, my Mikasa china and a down comforter that would need its own U-Haul when I moved. He owned a road bike and a mountain bike and could read topographical maps and UTM coordinates. I hadn’t been on a bike since I was in elementary school and didn’t know what a topographical map was, much less UTM coordinates. He took semi-annual weeklong backpacking trips out West with his college friends. I took trips to the mall. I was more familiar with line dancing than zip lines. I could work out one of those bras that had 7 configurations but couldn’t figure out how to strap on a backpack without help. Sleeping under the stars? Yes, but only if there was a giant skylight in my bedroom. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise that as the relationship progressed, he would need to find out if I was going to fit in with that part of his life. He arranged a test: a weekend backpacking trip to North Sylamore Creek near the town of Fifty-Six in the north central part of the state.
How was I, a person who had moved to Arkansas as a child and had spent all her formative years here so unfamiliar with the outdoors, he wondered? Because my parents were not outdoor people, that’s why. My dad was a Vietnam Vet who had done his share of bivouacking and told us from the time we were little that camping was out of the question. That was not an experience he would repeat without being paid to do so. I did go to church camps a few times as a girl, and did not enjoy it. But I liked this guy and while he was more certain about our relationship than I was at this point, I thought I should at least try to see what he found so appealing about this camping thing. So with my hiking boots of questionable quality, a borrowed backpack full of borrowed gear and one new nylon shirt purchased that morning because I had packed cotton, not realizing that was a big no-no, we set out for our first joint backwoods experience.
Within an hour of starting off down a well worn trail, I realized he was leading me farther and farther away from the familiar rut. Soon we were “bushwhacking” in the wilderness. Was he trying to see if I’d freak out? Perhaps he expected me to complain about the rough terrain or the weight of my pack. I was passing the test with flying colors, we were 3 hours into the hike and I was still having a great time, a much better time than I had expected. Soon it was time to get back on the trail so we could start looking for an overnight campsite, but the best place to get back to it would involve climbing a tree up to a ledge above us. Yes, climbing a tree. Was this part of the test? If it was, I figured my grade was about to drop. I wasn’t sure I remembered how to climb a tree. Somehow I managed with less effort than I thought it would take and we journeyed on down the trail, sometimes chatting away about the things people chat about when all their stories are still fresh and haven’t been heard a hundred times over by their partners and sometimes walking in silence with little but the sound of wind in the trees and boots on the ground. After what seemed like days, but was in reality only a few hours, we found a primitive campsite close to a water source. Did I mention he expected me to filter my own drinking water too? I was exhausted. So I was quite happy to let him set up the tent, unload all the gear, start a fire and make me dinner. And then he did something a little unexpected. He pulled out chocolate pudding cups and a little bottle of Grand Marnier for dessert. On our very first date, he ordered Grand Marnier so we could continue to occupy our restaurant table until closing. It was a nice touch, a reminder of romance and that special feeling you get when you connect with someone, and I hadn’t envisioned it happening in the backwoods of Arkansas, pulled from the bottom of a backpack. A girl could get used to this.
I have had plenty of time to get used to it because I fell in love with backpacking on that trip and finally admitted to him what he had suspected for weeks, that I loved him too. Now I have my own backpack and much better boots and we spend as much time out in the woods and on the trails as we can manage. I learned to love it so much that I agreed to go backpacking for a portion of our honeymoon. Okay so it was backpacking in Peru but it was still backpacking. We still hike and backpack, sometimes just the two of us but more often it’s a family affair because we know that as much as we love each other and the beauty of Arkansas, we need to help our kids find their own love for it so it will be treasured and preserved for their kids to love.
I’m a Wife and Mom. I’m a microbiologist. I’m a mountain biker, hiker, backpacker, sometime runner, and workout enthusiast all while being addicted to good food. I write about it at http://freneticfitness.wordpress.com. I also write for www.ArkansasOutside.com about other people who love to play outside too. I’m fueled by pizza, red meat and goat cheese risotto. And sometimes I sleep.
My Love Story {Love Story} Written by Erin Yarbery of Bideawee.
This story begins six months after we married when we found out we were expecting. We weren’t trying to get pregnant, but I didn’t believe in using artificial birth control and we didn’t know exactly how natural family planning worked. We were nervous, but happy.
Less than two weeks later, we miscarried. It was hard and painful in many ways, but we were young and had been told that miscarriage is incredibly common. We had hope that the next pregnancy would be better.
A year later, we became pregnant again and, within a couple of weeks, miscarried again. This miscarriage was both easier and harder. Physically we knew what to expect. Mentally and emotionally, we couldn’t understand it. We wanted to know why it happened again, but, where we live, a specialist will not see a patient until she’s had at least three miscarriages. Although friends and family offered love and support, we felt fairly alone.
Nine months later, at Christmastime, we had our third pregnancy. Although it was also a surprise, we were more excited about this pregnancy than the others. We felt certain that we would finally have a baby. We prayed. We visited our parish priest and asked for special blessings. Hub remodeled every closet in the house trying to make space. I tried different remedies to have a healthier pregnancy and had been taking prenatal vitamins for a long time. We did everything we could possibly do to remain positive. My doctor did everything he could do to help us. It lasted two weeks longer than the previous pregnancies, and it was, by far, the hardest loss.
Believe it or not, we picked up the familiar pieces and resolved to be happy anyway. We knew we needed to focus on our health for a while. We needed time to breathe and time for Hub to finish college. Thus, putting aside my personal beliefs and attempting to do what was best, I chose to use “the pill” for a little while.
Nevertheless, only a few months later, I endured a fourth pregnancy. I knew from the beginning that this pregnancy was different; something wasn’t right. I had immediately stopped using the pill when I realized I was pregnant, but it was already too late. Almost as quickly as I realized I was pregnant, I also realized I was having another miscarriage. I made an appointment with my doctor, who confirmed with blood tests that my levels were definitely dropping, so I went home and prepared for the inevitable physical pain.
This time, however, I endured the most painful sensations I’d ever felt. For several days, the pain would come and go with increasing intensity. I paced the floors at work gritting my teeth and bearing it until it subsided. I was too stubborn to take sick leave. Having done this before, I knew I would only feel depressed at home, so I continued working. I had discussed with Hub my suspicions of a tubal pregnancy, but, because the pain would always subside, we assumed it was just a miscarriage.
Finally, one afternoon as I browsed the local craft store, I found myself alone in an aisle, hunched over in pain and nearly in tears. I didn’t want to make a scene, but I knew something was wrong. I straightened up as much as I could and walked, like a zombie, to the truck. Somehow I managed to drive, while sobbing, back to the university where Hub was volunteering at a plant sale with the agriculture department. By the time I arrived, I knew I couldn’t walk a step further and I was embarrassed to be seen in such a state, so I called his cell phone and asked him to meet me in the parking lot. He knew immediately that my condition was serious – I rarely ever felt pain I couldn’t handle – so we headed to the doctor’s office.
A vaginal ultrasound showed that I was indeed having a tubal (or ectopic) pregnancy. My doctor was extremely surprised that I had been able to endure the pain for so long; apparently, nearly too long. I was in serious condition and was sent to the hospital for emergency surgery. The tube was removed.
It was an outpatient surgery so I recovered at home. As soon as I we walked in the door, Hub took control. He held my hair and cleaned up after me while I threw up; helped me roll out of bed every morning as my stomach was sore; laid me on the couch and turned on my favorite TV shows and movies; answered the phone when I couldn’t or didn’t want to; made breakfast, lunch and dinner; took care of the dog and the laundry and bought groceries. He took care of everything so I could wallow as long as I needed. He was my hero; my knight in shining armor.
Eventually, the pain weakened, my hormones went back to normal, and I returned to work. I dove back into life and slowly felt like me again. It was during this time that Hub finally showed his emotions.
He had remained so strong and brave throughout the process, never complaining. He had spoken about it freely and answered everyone’s questions without hesitation. Thus, when I saw him break down, I was shocked. I had not expected it. When I asked why he had waited so long to embrace his emotions, he said, “I had to be strong for you… until you felt better.”
So we cried together and held each other for a long time. It was his turn to hurt. This was when I realized I would never, ever have another friend like him; another man who would put his feelings totally aside to care for me in my time of need. I realized I was living my love story, in all its imperfections, with the man of my dreams. It meant more to me than any fairy tale ever could.
I am Erin from the blog, Bideawee. I’ve lived in Arkansas all my life and always dreamed of traveling the world. I have a bachelors degree in journalism and I’m happily married. We don’t have children yet, but we truly love our furbaby, Lakota. This is our journey.
Loving Laura {Love Story} Written by Julie Kohl of Eggs and Herbs
I think my first true love as a girl was for Laura Ingalls Wilder. Not necessarily the real Laura but the fictional Laura that lived in the pages of the Little House on the Prairie books. I romanticized the pioneer lifestyle and everything that was Laura. I found myself drawn to pioneer type activities (sewing, crafting, cooking) and loved going to museums where the “olden days” came alive within their walls. Old Sturbridge Village, Colonial Williamsburg and the Billings Farm and Museum, where my mom worked, all had amazing pioneer exhibits and were places I loved to visit.
I looked forward to stormy winter nights (I grew up in Vermont) when the power would go out and we were forced to live by candle light and warm ourselves by the fireplace.
I channelled my inner Laura every time my sister and I played “Indians” or “Cooking Rock” by the pond in our back woods.
I always had a penchant for things that were handmade, homemade and simple.
I have read every book written by Laura Ingalls Wilder, several times.
I have read many books written about Laura.
Laura was a sister, a friend, a confidant, a mentor and long before I understood that Laura was real, she was real to me.
Every Tree Has A Story {Love Story}
Written by ARWB February 2012 Blogger of the Month, Gina Knuppenburg of Desperately Seeking {Gina}.
Most of us learn the genealogy of our family tree early on in life. We can connect Mom to all the children of Great- Auntie Betty or name Grandma Minnie’s father’s second wife’s son. I certainly can. But what I can’t retell is the story of how the tree was planted.
I know, for sure, the story of how my parents met; at least I know the basics. It’s the details I don’t remember. Was my mom head-over-heels in love with my dad? Were they a mushy couple? Did dad buy mom trinkets and flowers and declare his undying love every Valentine’s Day? I know that I’ve asked these questions countless times and my mom patiently retells their love story each and every time.
As my grandmother’s aged and I sat with them and listened to their stories, I never thought to write them down. At the time, I never thought about a future without my beloved grandmas. It never occurred to me that the leaves of their branches would fall from the family tree and be lost in the wind.
As bloggers, we often tell stories of our day-to-day activities. We relate our lives to current events. We explore thoughts, feeling, emotions, and struggles. Good news is shared.; good fortune proclaimed. We type out goals and lists. Recipes are shared and pretty pictures pinned. It should be easy for us, then, to tell the story of how our respective family trees were started.
So, my question for you, ladies of ARWB: are you recording your {love stories}? Are you blogging about them? Journaling them? Will your children, ages from now, be able to recount the story of how their parents met, fell in love, and married {or didn’t marry…there are SO many different kinds of stories to tell}? Will the story of grandma’s and grandpa’s love be retold throughout countless generations?
Relationships change, love may fade. Marriages dissolve or never happened to begin with. Not every story will end happily ever after. Those stories need to be told, too. Not every story will have a beginning, middle, and end. Details may already be lost. The important thing is to jot down what you do know.
Need some ideas to get started?
Methods:
Blog about it! Be sure to print out your posts.
Journaling. Dedicate a notebook to telling your love story. Even if you don’t fancy yourself a story teller you can use this method. Don’t write in complete sentences. Jot down thoughts, feelings, dates, times, specifics.
Scrap booking. Include pictures, mementos, menus from restaurants, corsages, etc.
Videography. Write up a list of questions. Sit grandma, dad, mom, aunts, and uncles {or yourself!} in front of the camera and get them talking.
Topics:
How did you meet?
What did your parents and/or friends think about your new relationship? love?
Who proposed and how?
What was your wedding/first home like?
What did you like to do together?
Can your associate your significant other with a scent? sound?
First impressions
The possibilities are endless. Be creative. Or, don’t. How the story is told is less important than why it should be told. No matter if your family tree is merely a seedling or as tall as a California Redwood, the leaves of it’s branches should be watered, nurtured, and most importantly it’s canopy of love stories should be told and retold for generations to come.
3 Reasons I Love My blog Schedule {Love Story} Written by Sarah E. White of Our Daily Craft
I’ve never been a very consistent blogger. Actually, that’s not true. When I’m paid to blog I can do it with consistency and style, and even work ahead of myself when the need arises.
When it comes to personal blogging, though, it’s a different story. I have good intentions, and lots I want to write about, but my blog is always at the bottom of the to-do list, and often after all the commitments of my for-pay writing there aren’t enough hours with my daughter out of the house to get personal blogging (and, heaven forbid, a little house cleaning or exercise or something) done, too.
This year I resolved to do better, so I set myself a blogging schedule, or maybe more precisely a framework for my posts. Each day has a theme into which I try to fit my writing. This will be different for every site but here’s mine:
“My Life” Monday: this is the place for postsabout what’s going on in my life and household, parenting, general crafting essays and other stuff that doesn’t fit into the other days (recipes, bookreviews, etc.)
Tutorial Tuesday: just like it sounds. Here I’ll teach my readers how to do something or share a crafty project.
Whatever Wednesday: Wednesday is sort of a wildcard day. It usually looks a lot like Monday, with posts about crafting,parenting, what I’m working on and what we’re playing with.
Things I Love Thursday: a place to talk about books, websites, companies, people, products or whatever else I’m into that week.
“Found it on Pinterest” Friday: to keep myself actually creating some of the things I find on Pinterest, these posts feature my take on projects on my boards.
The Case against Schedules
I know the thought of a schedule for blogging is pretty off-putting for a lot of us. I didn’t actually expect to like it. Our blogs are personal, they have to do with what’s going on in our lives, and you can’t schedule that.
Furthermore, blogging is creative,and you never know what you’ll want to write about from day to day, right?
That’s true, but it’s also true that a framework for thinking about what we’re going to write can be just the thing we need to get us on track, keep us motivated, even make us more creative as bloggers. In fact, there are plenty of reasons to love scheduling.
Organization Will Set You Free
My schedule makes planning my week easy. Instead of wondering what I’m going to write about from day to day, or thinking “maybe I should write a tutorial,” I know basically what I need to be thinking about to fill my week. And it’s already happening pretty naturally. Something will happen during the week that will be great to write about for a Monday, or I’ll be doing something and think it would be perfect for a Thursday post.
It makes me more creative. Knowing that I need to have a tutorial every Tuesday and something I made from Pinterest every Friday means there needs to be more crafting built into my schedule. But beyond that I’m thinking like a blogger more, seeing post possibilities everywhere. I find myself trying out new things more often and taking lots of pictures and notes so I always have a steady stream of post ideas at the ready. I’m also visiting more blogs, learning from other bloggers and getting more ideas to try.
It helps me stay focused. I started this on January 4 and managed 17 posts in January compared to just seven in December, when I thought I was trying to post more often. More often than not, I’m posting every weekday now. I usually know at the beginning of the week what my posts are going to be about, which means I’m already thinking about them before I start writing. That makes the actual writing go a little faster, and a couple of times I’ve actually managed to do a little writing in advance.
I won’t say a schedule is foolproof, and I’m sure there will be slipups, vacations and days I just don’t get to the blog, but on the whole I love my new arrangement.
I’m getting more posts written, getting more blog traffic and having more fun. Who wouldn’t love that?
Sarah E. White is a freelancewriter, editor, blogger, wife and mom of a 2-year-old based in Fayetteville.She’s the Guide to Knitting for About.com and writes about her crafty life at Our Daily Craft .
