Meet The Tree-ras.

I recently read a blog post that said, (somewhat loftily, I thought):

"I don't just blog to fill space."

Well, good for her, but my take on that is 'Why the bleep not, empty space can be seriously boring!'

What to write about?

Anything.
Everything.

Jerry Seinfeld made up a show about nothing, and it ran for how many years?

One creative writing instructor says, "Take an inanimate object and write about it. Write about what's on your desk."

Well.
Okay.

I'll have to warn you, this is where it could get dicey.

I'm a slob sometimes, and because there are far too many items on my desk to name (and because my pride won't allow me to snap a picture of them all), I'll just go with one item today. It's my photo tree, which stands proudly by my computer.

There are only two photos of myself on the metal tree. The rest are complete strangers, ancient pictures of those I deemed 'strong women'. I discovered their long-forgotten images at a dusty-smelling antique shoppe in Hyde Park, where I tirelessly dug through a boxful to see who would make the cut.  Only people that had 'the look' got to hang out on the fabled branches. The look of aggressive, ambitious, women who didn't take any crap. One girl looks like she could eat someone's liver, and her sister or mother or whoever it is in the background looks (I swear!) exactly like Ashley Judd.

This tribe of sheroes cheer me on day in and day out. I can practically hear them saying, "You're going to kick it in your content writing job today," or, "You know, you really should be writing more authentically. Aren't you tired of writing everyone else's voice but yours?" or, as in the case of the little mean girl, "I'm about to eat your liver."

The woman leaning confidently against the door of her cruiseship cabin never says a word. She doesn't have to; her affluence speaks for itself. I don't always like the way she looks at me, to be honest. I get the feeling she might have been a real pill to live with.

One photo looks like a group of either housemaids or private school students, I can't tell which. If it's private school, someone really missed it on the uniform choice. I actually like to think they are hardworking housemaids, busting their backsides to get the job done each and every day. Heaven only knows the vast creativity that lurks behind any frustrated woman holding a mop.

These are my people.
I have no clue whatsoever who they are, yet they cheer me on each and every day when I turn on the office lights and hit my PC's 'on' button.

You've now all been properly introduced.