At the marketing seminar I went to last month in Chicago, one of the things I carried away with me was that as a writer, I create content. That's what I do.
It's what I do in my job with Webster's Pages.
It's what I do as a novelist.
It's what I do as a blogger.
I create content.
So when the well runs dry and the content seems mentally unreachable, it leaves me wondering what on earth do I want to say? (Am I the only one?)
Some days, I'm just lucky to get by. Some days I spill Cherry Icee all over the counter at Target only to have the annoying guy at the cash register shoot me a look like it's my fault he forgot to give me a lid.
And did YOU know those things poof up like a teased out 80's perm? I had no idea. I filled the cup, set it down and watched it rise. And rise. And rise.
Dripping and messy, I took it to the counter and swallowed my cherry-covered pride.
"Can you please help me with this?" I asked the guy. (Who, the last time I was there made a point to tell me that he's the only one who can get those lids on those cups without a problem but it's probably because he's been working there for years. Years, he said. To which I responded, "Huh, maybe they should get new lids.")
He turned up his nose and set down the big brown box in his arms. "Let me just...get a glove."
I think he thought he had something to prove because he snapped that lid on in milliseconds and handed it back to me. "There you go."
He had a glove.
I pushed the cart one-handed, holding Sam with my other sticky, red-stained hand while my two older kids trailed behind. We hit the parking lot and were nearly plowed over in traffic.
I swear these Colorado drivers are INSANE.
Apparently the kind that humiliates me and offers no take-away, no value or importance whatsoever.
Yep. I'm in the business of creating empty content today.
And yes, my hands are still pink.