A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum

Two things--no, three--happened today (well, yesterday by the time you read this post) that made me stop and consider my writing.
First, I had nightmares last night that kept me from sleeping well. Awake every half hour until I got up at six--yes, that's six in the morning, which I happen to consider an ungodly hour. When I'm queen of the world, it will be outlawed. My insomnia has decided to make itself known again the past several nights. Basically, the first seasoning in the recipe is exhaustion, which never bodes well in my thinking life. Well, I think I'm thinking brilliant thoughts, but I've been told they're not as astute as I might imagine.
Second (if I can remember after that rambling), there were some new comments on old posts found in my sidebar "pontifications." I don't pontificate much anymore. I don't have these posts that make my readers stop and go, "oooooh, wow" and snap, snap, snap with head donned in beret. Have I used up all my oooooh, wow thoughts? Has my shiny dulled? Or have I just gotten lazy?
Third, I did some research on possibilities for publication. I mean true publication, not just, "Heather Goodman is published on her blog" publication and found some interesting opportunities for memoirs (well, one in particular excited me before I discovered that it is no longer in publication--c'est la vie, which I think is French or something). When I started this writing journey thingie, I wrote just that. Memoirs. I had read Alexandra Fuller and Don Miller and thought, hey, why not? Surely I have something to recount.
Except I don't. Not a darned thing. Seriously? What do I have to tell? Well, there was the time when I was oh, about five and thought my younger sister was being hit by a car. You see, she was riding her Hot Wheels. (How I long for my Strawberry Shortcake Hot Wheels sometimes--we rode them around our patio making streets between the picnic table and benches and chairs complete with lights and everything.) When she (my sister, the story is about her, if I can ever stop interrupting myself--remember, no sleep) saw a car backing out of a driveway, like a good citizen, she stopped and waited. But her stop was too close to the car's path and the bumper knocked it down. I, being the responsible older sister, went screaming into the house, where my mother was. Cheryl's being hit by a car! Cheryl's being hit by a car! Dad was already outside and to her rescue. No damage was done.
The end.
See how much I loved her? I was devastated.
Of course, then there's the time when I almost beat her up because I thought she was cheating at Go Fish.
These stories lack something. What is it, what is it? Oh, interest. Yeah, that's it. I blame my parents. If they weren't so loving and caring, if only I had had a worse childhood, then I'd have all of these powerful stories to pen and ooooh, wow the world.
Hence my foray into fiction.
Who knows? Maybe I'll foray myself back. I'll pontificate and dredge up some repressed memory of getting lost at Woolworth's (Mom still insists she was only an aisle away, but I think that's her cover up). Or I can talk about the attempt to pay bills in our household, which is a comedy funnier than Bill Cosby's Himself (which never fails to have me snorting).


* Note to God: this is not a request for more hardship in my life.