I have so much to put down on paper, or pixels, as the technology of today would have it, that I could probably spend all my time writing and never actually stop to experience anything. And that's just non-fiction. In fact, I was just complaining to myself, since I'm too irritating to be listened to by many for long, all this blogging crap has put a serious dent in my fiction writing effort.
Oh, come on. That's just an excuse. I've been writing the same book for ten years. I should put it together already. Ya know - that's a good idea! No time like the present! Bye!
Just kidding. In this blog, I can write in whatever voice is mine at the moment and no, I don't mean that I'm hearing voices, okay? It means that if I feel justified in hating humanity, and who isn't, I can speak that from the heart. If I want to profess my undying, juvenile canine, Archies, touch-me-there love for you, no prob. It's stream, river, waterfall, aquifer and sewer of consciousness all at once.
Now, I've felt myself wanting to self-censor but, so far, I've basically held back. This is me. Really me. And there's a chilling effect on the creative process where self-suppression is involved. In other words, if I have to tailor what I write here to avoid scorching the psyche of a friend or loved one, it ain't gonna work and I might as well write only ad copy. But this was a lesson I was taught by another writer. Wasn't my idea. I'd rather say whatever the hell I want and never see or read the flip-side. Oh, come on, now. You're no different.
I read my own stuff here and am amused, bemused and righteously satisfied. Sometimes I write things I wish I hadn't, but they are left to stand. I read other writers' blogs and they sometimes reference me and my lovable quirkiness. I mentioned my dismay - okay, I totally lost my kool, yo - at something I read. Guess what? I READ IT WRONG and not only embarrassed myself but quelled the writer's sense of freedom in doing the blog. When I realized this, I said to myself, "Self, y'all ain't doing that no mo. You will force creative production into obscurity." Since then, I've read things that made me uncomfortable but I haven't said a word. The writing stands on its own and I'm honoured to be written about anyhow. Plus, I would fight tooth and pencil for not only this writer's write and right to say whatever needed to be said, but I'd do it for that Nazi over there and that racist to the left and that ditzy schoolgirl in the back and anyone else who had the sizzling need to put thoughts into the ether for all to see. You go, girl, boy, android, whatev!
So here I sit, sipping a fine sherry, just like that pop songster whose name escapes me right now, as most names continue to do, is doing when he's watching that girl in a particular shade of blue who looks like you but is not you or whatever. Very annoying song. In fact, I was quite impress with him when his first record (ha) came out but have since realized that he's shallow and skilled only in the way a porn star has skills.
I have a laundry list of things to write about. This has been a week the folks in Lake Woebegon would likely rather forget. I know I would. To sum up:
- my mother took the long vacation
- my brother made it clear I am little more than a dust bunnie in the "family" as he continues his fantasy of morphing into Michael Corleone
- my I-wish-she-was-my-ex-already has gone native and has totally left the reservation
- I may go to Germany - for a year
- Secret Santa was good to me. He apparently wants me to take up drinking on the run
- I saw a wild turkey explode
- Pink gloves are harder to find than you might think
- I've made an important decision about my girlfriend. Oh, boy.
So, there's a lot to write about. Whether I'll be able to get to it all, I just don't know. But, write I shall, just as soon as I pick up that dog poo over there. Excuse me while I kiss this guy. Wha na na wha na na, wha na na . . .