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Did you listen?  If not, click past a post and harness the virtue of multi-tasking.  Minutes, not outnumbering the digits on either pairs of appendages, could achieve a neat nail trim on those constantly enumerated fingers and toes, not to mention a sharply honed intellect.

For those of you who have already realized their pedicure, manicure, and mind-icure, let us proceed.

(prior to advancing further, I wish to inform readers that this post is probably more than slightly self-indulgent.  Treating a case of writing constipation could result in a crude case of the opposite)

point 1-prosaism
I am an admitted cliche: a self-published blogger with aspirations for writing. I don’t imagine I’ll ever see a Bagley shelved between an Austen and Brontë, but I do fancy a well turned phrase occasionally.  Something I can jester at during a theoretical talent show.  

Typing of, I wish I had penned Tom Wait’s imagery about inspiration coming like “a dream through a straw.”  That’s how Cardigan Empire started.  Almost accidental.  I wanted to help a dear friend and negotiate peace in the fitting room.

Yet of late my straw has been stopped. Possible attributions for this mental impediment include: sleep deprivation, newborn induced noun loss (the condition in which mothers find it difficult to hold a conversation without access to the Internet as a reference point), or classic time scarcity. 

However, in moments of honesty, I can accurately define the cerebral stymie as simple fear of failure. 

I’m a success junkie, a compliment whore.  Pat my head literally or metaphorically, and I will bind myself to fetch your bidding, in desperate hopes of another verbal validation. 

 

And I fear that I am the blogging equivalent to a second rate Cyndi Lauper.  I’ve written my “Time after Time,” and there isn’t even the option of Dancing with the Stars or Celebrity Apprentice for expired bloggers.

I am old.  My text messaging lacks acronyms.  I am not trendy, in fact I’m excessively loyal to romantic details and feminine silhouettes.  I am a remedial camera operator.  And my husband rarely if ever returns until long after the golden hour has expired. I can’t sew, and I doubt I will ever make it to the thrift store on a weekly basis to find the clandestine steals.  My follower dial has been stalled for several fortnights, and my blog design is so 2008.

My personal pinnacles may not be cataloged with fame, but occasionally I review my efforts and am pleased with the results.

As I stare down at my poetic barrier, the thought that I am neither fully responsible for my creative success nor my literary litter, tranquilizes my anxiety.  I need to negotiate with inspiration and occasionally issue a generous thank you note, but I don’t have to spontaneously generate from the dusty corners of my mind.

In closing, i am disclosing the Cardigan Empire mission statement, and I expect you to hold me to it.  It details what this creative effort is and is not.

What Cardigan Empire wants to be:

Educational: CE should never induce envy.  If I can’t show you how to do it better than I have done it, I have failed. 

Communal: I’d prefer to post a photo of how I helped you look pretty than read a profusion of compliments on my own look. (and I have a plan on how to do that, which I shall share in due time)

Quality: I am committed to conscientious selection and cleverly calculated cost per wear.  I believe a closet should be as carefully assembled and deliberately diversified as your stock portfolio. 

Literary: Each post will team with pretty words, supercilious vocabulary, and lots of alliteration.

I am going to let Cardigan Empire be what it was born to be, if I can help one mother love her body, or one wife feel pretty, or one daughter respect herself…

that’s a pearl and I’m happy to be an oyster.

Have you ever felt like that?

Feed me fashionably fresh