My home isn’t a home, but a place…
I have been doing great the last three weeks writing at least 10 minutes a day. I usually have a ton of ideas. Somewhere I have a journal of my ideas, but for some reason today I could not find it.
As I sat down for my nightly “time” to click on my keyboard, I found myself with absolutely nothing to write.
I must have looked forlorn because my 10 year-old daughter took a pause and asked me what was wrong. I told her I had no ideas to write about. She laughed at me. “Mom you always have something to write.” I sat in silence and thought for a little bit then, I scrolled Facebook and the headlines and looked for some topic.
I wasn’t making any progress. In her matter-of-fact way, my daughter said I needed to write about the boring walls in our house. She didn’t think it would be possible for me to write about such a dull topic and no one would read it anyway. So here I am, writing about the walls where we live, and proving to her that I can write about darn near anything including our nondescript, rather plain, boring walls.
My kids and I moved into this little house a little more than 4 years ago. It was nice, but it wasn’t home. I had owned a beautiful “mini” mansion in a historic section of town. The first floor was 1350 square feet of a 3 bed, 1 bath rental unit. The…
