Me write pretty one day

After spending the past three years blogging about my experiences as a stay-at-home Dad, I've decided to kick it up a notch. I've decided to write a book about my stay-at-home dad-ness. Every single "writer," whether he or she works for a newspaper or randomly jots down thoughts on a blog that nobody reads, holds a secret ambition to write a book. Sooner or later the itch grows too strong not to scratch.

Well, my itch has become unbearable lately. When considering the fact that I have no idea what I am going to "do" when I grow up, along with my sheer boredom and propensity to read way too much, it really isn't that big of a surprise that I've joined the "I'm going to write a book!" cliche.

So I'm going to write a book! Look at me everybody!

Oh it sounds so easy. I yack away on this blog without a care in the world. I write sermons that I occasionally present at my church and other churches around Idaho. It's easy and nobody's ever really booed, so I take that as a good sign. My wife and my Mommy both think I'm awesome, so surely that is a sign as well, right? Hello?

But each time I sit down to work on MY BOOK (dum, dum, dum!!) I suddenly lose all grasp of the English language. My sentences start to yammer and stammer. My fingers randomly and compulsively hit, the, comma, button, every, other, word. I go from a somewhat coherent thought to a completely different thought that has nothing to do with anything and then on to a third thought all in the same sentence. Whenever I look up I expect to see Vince Lombardi glaring at me and yelling, "What the hell is going on out here!!"

It's a conundrum kiddies!

It's not like I have unrealistic expectations or anything. I sit down each morning hoping to compose something beautiful. Words that will make people weep, laugh, join together in singing "We are the world." I want to compose sentences like, oh I don't know, this:

“All around the house the black cold of the night was as high as the sky and as wide as the world, and there was nothing in it but the lonely wind.” – Laura Ingalls Wilder in “By The Shores of Silver Lake.”

That's not too much to ask, is it? It's not that hard right?

A light bulb flashes in my head, but by the time my fingers reach the keys on the keyboard it all gets a little fuzzy. Suddenly, that, blasted, comma, button, gets, overused, again! And I put in exclamation points and question marks that don't really belong?

So anyway, I'm going to write a book about being a stay-at-home dad. I'm sure the only people that will ever read it will be my wife, my Mommy and perhaps a few unlucky souls who happen to join my "book group" (What do you mean we're not going to read 'On the Road'? What is this crap about being a bored dad? And what's up with all of these commas?).

With any luck I'll have this bad boy completed in time for Michael's 50th birthday present. Fingers crossed, kiddies. Fingers crossed!?,

- Dave