I've been wondering what to do about today. Ever since I came up with my psuedonym, I've considered what significant things I could plan for The Day of Elevens.
At first, I dreamed of a book debut today. My two-year-ago self had big dreams and imagined no trip-ups along the way. Ah, Two-Year-Ago Self. So cute and naive. I kinda miss you.
High School Self would totally have bought a ticket to see Steven King at my local bookstore tonight. The fact that he'll be less than ten miles from my house and available for public viewing seems like something rare and valuable. But High School Self was freshly laden with the regret of passing up a similar meeting with Ray Bradbury for a Calculus test she didn't pass anyway. Ah, High School self. So reactive and emotionally uniformed. I don't miss you so much, but you still whisper suggestions that remind me you're locked up in my head somewhere. Adult Self just keeps overriding you, especially this time. I'm only a moderate admirer of Steven King, not a die hard fan. Going to see him will not make up for missing Bradbury. It will just be a regret in the opposite direction.
Last Summer Self imagined great things for you, oh day of elevens, despite the nine-months-and-running writers block. Last Summer Self thought about building up a store of Writer Wednesdays and Philosophical Phridays, and then celebrating a reopening of the blog today, followed by months of timely and pithy posts on specific subjects. Kristen Lamb would have been proud. But Last Summer self got out voted by Fall Procrastinating self, who read books and surfed the net instead of building up the necessary posts. If Next Month self gets on the ball, I might unveil a routine at the New Year. Or something.
Last Week Self decided to skip you altogether, November Eleventh. That's right. Can you believe it? After representing the number eleven for almost two years, she had decided it was too hard to come back and blog when she couldn't even finish two pages of a story. But I know where Last Week self was, and I can't blame her. For those with chemical sensitivities, you might well know what I'm talking about when I say Last Week Self was immersed in Progesterone Hell. Progesterone Hell is not a pretty place, so I'd rather not go into it.
And Today Self? I am feeling good today. Apparently, emerging from Progesterone Hell inspires endorphines and energy and hope. I'm trying to forgive Fall Procrasting Self, console Two-Year-Old Self, and enforce firm boundaries on High School Self. But mostly, I just want to enjoy today, a day with so many Elevens.
Hooray for a beautiful number! Don't you just love the way it rolls off your tongue? Go ahead and say it out loud: Eleven. Try it with a British Accent. Try it with an Indian one. Numerologists swear when 11:11 shows up on a clock, amazing coincidences occur. Mystics believe it has special powers. It's the number that never gets old. Even people of that age are a joy. They are the oldest and most responsible of the kids who haven't hit all the complicated angst of adolescence.
But I think I'm done hiding behind the number. If and when I restart my blog, I'll be using my real name.
Hi, my name is Heather Whitley. It feels decidedly unexotic, especially since I was born with all those other Heathers in the 1970's. But it is me, and if you shout it out in a room, I'll respond. Maintaining a dual identity is a lot of work, and it feels like time to simplify.
I'd like to thank Nancy Curteman and myliteraryquest for all your wonderful comments on this blog, as well as all the rest of you that read and posted. Thank you to my twelve adoring followers for putting your thumbnail in my collection. Thank you to the brilliant and talented Liz Czukas for spurring me to blog in the first place. It is a worthwhile thing, and I will come back to it when my Hypergraphia returns. It's the one mental condition I dearly miss. I'm still hoping, with patience and effort, I can inspire its return.
Friends, Countrymen, Take Up Your Words!
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