I haven't posted in a while. Sorry about that. But after writing about my dad, it's been a little hard for me to make myself post anything that will cause his image to scroll further down (and eventually off) the page. Something about it just seemed... wrong, somehow. Like if I could just keep writing and let that post move through the queue I'd be erasing him or something.
On the other hand, that post got such a response (both online and out in the meatspace) that I feel like I need to write more. I've ignored that, whether out of lack of inspiration or out of fear of letting Dad's post go, or something else entirely. But I want to get back into it.
Some of what you may see here will be mindless drivel. Or me babbling about pop culture, or me whining about why the Mets can't just play consistent baseball, or me scheming on how to get Firestar into Avengers 2. Some of it will be higher quality content when the inspiration and ability strike me.
And some of it will be continuing to talk about mental health. I promise this is not going to become Tara's Depression Blog. Pinky swear. But some of you have said my posts on that topic really helped you, and writing things out always helps me to organize them in my brain, so I'm going to stick with that while trying to interject some other stuff as well.
In a way I feel like I owe this to my dad a bit. A lot of people at his wake and funeral asked me why I'm not a writer and I didn't have a good answer. The best I could come up with was, "I don't really know how to be a writer." But I'm reminded of the advice Neil Gaiman says he always gives to young writers: "Write. Finish things." So that's what I'm going to try to do. Maybe it'll go somewhere, maybe it'll just help me keep my head organized and allow me to connect with all of you who read these things. Either way I feel like it's a win.
Post title is an unholy mashup of this Sarah McLachlan song and this William Butler Yeats poem. Don't you judge me; I'm a complex woman.