A NEED TO WRITE
I’m a writer but I don’t blog. Frankly, everyone from dogcatchers to ass-scratchers do a daily
blog. Frankly dunno whom they are saving these day-by-day, blow-by-blow accounts for. I’d hate to
think a solar storm or nuclear holocaust will endow these words archival infamy to future archeologists.
If folks from the future discover blogs complaining about the weather, opinions of GWB, erectile dysfunction
or decreasing hairlines in guys over forty, well, I guess that would be a fitting epitaph for what the human
race is capable of becoming. On one hand, proprietors of that shinning city on a hill…or trolls
living under the tin skirting of a trailer park, carving out words on a lap top no cave man would be
interested in drawing on.
But I digress.
I do write every day, though. Most writers do that. Writers write. Whiners whine. Recently, a promotion at
work kept me away from writing regularly as training ensued. I never realized how strange I get when
restricted from letting out the words in such a way. Now, back on my old shift, I can get back to writing and
dispensing Scooby snacks to the masses.
Do others have this need to write or let things out? I guess it depends on the depth of ones desire for
the -dare I say it- craft. I believe some writers are over the top and spend way too much time thinking
about their place in the literary world. Life is short. Write & shut up. It may be entertaining, and at
times, you can get emotions from others…but it sadness, fear, revulsion, a smile, a hearty HELL YEAH
or a head shake of derision. I find it is a fine line between sculpting creative genius and dropping the
pants for a laugh. While I reckon my creative genius is in short supply, hopefully, if I drop my drawers,
it isn’t that funny.
On my first trip to NYC I \saw examples of writers who chided a pal of mine for wanting to get paid to write.
I never knew folks like that existed -the goofs who wanted to contribute to the art of the human race. Meh.
Like I said about blogs being the leftovers or bile of a selfish society, my ego is not such that a tribute
to said inner earnings is necessary. Sure, all writers want to be recognized or read, else wise, I doubt they
would bother sharing their inner guts or wild ideas. Any writer that doesn’t really want to be paid to
share this gift, well, that confuses me. What really baffles me is how they can write with their heads so far
up their asses.
Now, I am a man who needs to write. If you have coffee with me, I’ll tell you a story. I’m a much
better storyteller than technical writer. It is important to let this out, I have found, be it funny stuff or
a violent yarn of barbaric fury. It is a part of me. It is who I am.
Lately, I sort of lost focus on who or what I am. One thing I know for certain is I’m a storyteller.
There are a lot of things I’m not. I’ll never be a surgeon, a lawyer, a book critic or a
colostomy bag salesman.
But I will write things that make you think, feel and laugh. I can
make you hear a baby’s laugh and know the joy it brings. I will
make you look into a coffin, see the face of your father and understand
telling him “see ya later, Dad” is an all right farewell.
I will make you believe a woman near to eighty years of age is a greater
warrior than a horde of Vikings.
On second thought, enough of this…I gotta write.
See ya later.
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