Herein, preliminary noises about the daunting nature of a blank page and an empty post.

Or, rather, as dear Mr. Thomas would have said, " To begin at the beginning: It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black." Which I like much better as an introduction than "It was a dark and stormy night."

It is not spring, although the bulbs outside my house have been fooled into believing that it is. Last week I noticed, rather with horror, that tiny green shoots are erupting from the ground where my King Alfreds are planted. On Friday we had a gorgeous thunderstorm, which I would have relished if it had been March instead of the end of January, but instead sat inside my office looking out with a cup of soy chai latte and lamenting the fact that it was probably too late to cover my fragile new plants with mulch, and probably futile as well.

Now an arctic cold lies over the whole region, and I cannot seem to get warm. I am sitting in the armchair in my husband's study (to get me to stay and keep him company, he sweetly tucked me in with a blanket, put a cat on my legs, and brought me a cup of tea) and trying, awkwardly, to begin again on a blog whose title is based on a silly, private sort of mondegreen.

You have heard of what the French call l'esprit d'escalier--"the wit of the staircase"--that absolutely perfectly brilliant retort that comes to mind after one has left the party and is ascending to one's room--but you have never heard of the "witch of the staircase," that beguiling, mischievous enchantress who secretly ties one's tongue and does not loosen it until clever repartee is no longer of use. Somewhere along the way, as a child, I misheard this phrase, and although soon enough corrected was disappointed that no such magical lady existed.

Once upon a time, I had another online diary, in another place, and it was a different kind of blog, one that has grown so unwieldy over time that I've grown tired of keeping it and would like to start again, somewhat more anonymously, building a different sort of circle, writing different kinds of posts, posts that are somewhat more careful and thoughtful. This is the blog I should have kept, with the things I should have written. Because the witch of the staircase is nothing if not all about second chances at wit, even if only for an audience of one.

Who am I? A thirty-something creative professional, married to a scientist. I was born and educated on the East Coast; graduated from college, married my sweetheart who was embarking on graduate school at a large, distinguished Midwestern research university. I also went to graduate school for a time and obtained a couple of advanced degrees in literature before becoming bored and deciding to do something else, which I do now, and quite happily. We live in a large house in a small but relatively civilized university community somewhere in the Midwest. I doubt I'll ever want to move back East; I don't especially miss it, although I do travel home twice a year to visit my mother, siblings, and nieces.

That's pretty much all you need to know about me for right now, although I'm sure I will disclose more--deliberately and inadvertently, in future posts. Whether anyone is actually listening...