Sage advice tells us that if you're not sure what
to write, begin with a quotation from someone really brilliant. By then, you
will have grabbed the attention of tons of people and they'll all think,
"Hmm. What an intelligent and interesting person this must be! He or she
is capable of reading, selecting a passage of text that someone thought of
creatively (and most likely spontaneously), and then rides on the tailcoats of
someone else's intelligence and wit!"
Another tip is to "write about what you know about".
Once again, this is sage advice. The problem is if you throw these two tips
together, you start off with something philosophical like Socrates and write something
like „The only thing that I know is that I know nothing.“ Then you dive into
your own profound musings on the reason why the Bachelorette chose Candidate F
over Candidate Y.
Fact is, I’m a complete novice at this blogging
thing. Over the past four years or so, I’ve discovered that writing is a really
beautiful, creative outlet that is both frustrating and satisfying, but it’s
one heck of journey until you get to the final product. Even when it’s the
“final” product, you know that you could have done so much more and somehow
made it so much better. So, does this feeling also apply to writing a blog? I’m
not quite sure, but I’m bound to find out.
It’s my intention to write as I speak with my
friends in conversation. Well, for the most part. Here, I have to use
punctuation, which is normally an indication that one is taking a breath or
pausing to collect thoughts. In real life, I’ve been known to have
stream-of-consciousness conversations on just about any subject matter at hand (just
ask my husband, who must endure this on a daily basis). We have a running joke
that basically, I have an invisible soapbox and can pull it out at will.
In order to give him a break and extend my soapbox
to an international audience (come on, Hyde Park is a bit of a restriction
for the soapbox antic), I’m blogging. Seriously, that verb reminds me of
“mud-bogging”, which is just allowing me to reflect my southern roots, I guess.
I’ll tell you all about CountryEuroCityMouse in an
upcoming blog, but for now, it’s good to know that this pseudonym represents
all of who I am, where I’ve been and where I think I’d like to be.
I was born and raised in the south (North central
Florida, to be precise, and if you don’t think that counts as the south, you
obviously don’t know anything about my state), and I’m a permanent resident of
the European Union. My husband and I are seriously considering relocating to a
US city in the near future. Hence, the CountryEuroCityMouse. Oh yeah, and a shout-out to Aesop for the idea. I love your fables, man. (You know I had to ride the coattails of some profound
philosopher here!)
Basically, I intend to write about my
(mis)adventures, past and present in places primarily in the US and the EU, and
some moments in Morocco and Turkey. And Canada. In addition to that, on
occasion, I’m pretty much going to be ranting and raving to you about everyday
life in Germany. Before we go any further than this, I feel that I need to
clarify at least two things that complete strangers asked me in NYC a few weeks
ago:
Yes, Germany does have electricity. It allows them
to make those luxury cars such as Mercedes Benz, Audi and Porsche. Maybe you've heard of them.
No, I do not have to get up and milk the goat first
thing in the morning. As a matter of fact, I don’t have a goat at all.
This is a developed country, people, and it’s
currently the richest one in the Euro Zone (I’m not even going there about the Euro
Crisis… at least, not today). It astounds me how many people don’t know basic
things about life outside of their personal bubble, which, in many ways, is
very dangerous. So, those are the two questions I’m answering right now. Feel
free to post any questions or comments you have, because I’d love to hear from
you, and I’d love tell you how it is for me here in Deutschland!
xoxo CountryEuroCityMouse
xoxo CountryEuroCityMouse
©2012 CountryEuroCityMouse™. All
rights reserved.
