Hello, stranger. Oh wait, no, I'm the one who hasn't been around. I've been cranky. Naw, not really, not cranky since June; that'd be a whole lotta crank. No, some bad things happened that made me not wanna think, let alone write. Which isn't truly true, because at first I abandoned you for REAL writing! Can you imagine? I was terribly terribly inspired. Even worked my ol' gambit of writing in my head as I fell asleep. That actually works for me. I can write whole sentences in my brain and remember them in the morning.
But then I stopped doing that. I've done some other stuff. Ever since I busted the TV addiction, I've been a reading fool. I love reading, but when I had the general malaise of said addiction, I would fall asleep, sometimes moments after opening a book. Now I can read for hours on end without feeling sleepy. It's like the olden days (my olden days), where I'd deny myself food, water, and trips to the bathroom in order to avoid putting down a book.
But I do think of you guys, especially when someone makes a snippy remark about my lack of blogging. Okay, that really thrills me to no end to think someone wants to read something I've said, but still, the guilt. And I don't want lil' bloggy here to make me feel guilty.
When I was in middle school I had a brown plastic folder that held a legal pad. And it had a pocket or two. Man, I love the accouterments of various hobbies. And as I believe I've told you, I had a goal of writing a novel before the age of 13 when S.E. Hinton wrote The Outsiders (which I later heard was actually 16 [too lazy to go passed the first page in my Google search], and think of the pressure that might have relieved! Now I'm more on the Grandma Moses time line).
I should probably look back at these posts to see if I've discussed what I want to discuss before. But I don't wanna! Hell, you probably never read that entry anyway. It's just, man, I can write until I'm blue in the face. It's just talking in print (in my world) and dude, can I talk! But, um, yeah, having something to say? Well that's a whole other kettle of wax (mmm, kettle of wax. One time my aesthetician gave me a paraffin soak freebie. SO soothing!).
I think as a child I was super creative and could make up stories with the best of them, but perhaps, as is so often the case with children, those stories were pointless meandering piles of shite. I remember, in fact, the day my imagination left me: I was playing with my Fisher Price toys. I set up the barn. Put up the corral for the horses and lamb. Placed the A-frame next door (as if any self-respecting farmer would live in a turquoise A-frame). It was all laid out. Then I looked at it and thought, now what the hell do I do? That was the moment my childhood ended, I'm pretty sure. I was 34. NO! I'm kidding.
But I must not have been too creative because I remember sitting there with my plastic folder and yellow tablet, pen poised, with not a clue what to write. And I was like 11 or something. I suspect the evil internal editor was already at play. My evil evil Superego who I think of as a dastardly Jiminy Cricket shaking his tiny begloved finger at me. Due to my constantly mentioned years of therapy, that little bug bastard is bound and gag and crammed in a dark closet somewhere. Now I fully accept that I have no story to tell, yet I write anyway. Ah, the glories of modern life and the blog.
It's not fully true, though, because I've had two (count 'em, two!) novels lurking in my head for nigh on 12, 13 years now. (Man, this all sounds so familiar. Did I write this before? I do have a few posts that I started but never finished. Oh hells bells, I'd better go look. Hold on.)
Yeah, I'm so predictable. I did start writing this blog already once. This is as far as I got:
I've been writing. Well, not here (duh). (As children, I feel that we occasionally said, "Doi Hickey," in order to emphasize the degree of our "duh." But wow, that seems real stupid.)
So as you know, you, my darling blog, are here to scratch my itch. And if some people choose to read my scratchings, and are amused by them, well then that rawks, as the kids say. Lately, I've simply been scratching in more private places. (My aunt once announced that she's was,"of the school that scratches where it itches and not where it looks good." That is true about her. I prefer to look good.)
Um, what the hell was I talking about? Oh, so yeah. Okay, I have two novels in my head. Those are probably the only ones. And they've been there for over 10 years, I'm mortified to say. But they weren't "write what you know." They were scary to me. And they meant research. Which I actually have done, to some degree. It helps with the procrastination."
It's telling, is it not, that I left off at the word "procrastination?" Yeah, well, feh. Those two novels. One, to my horror, is a period piece. And part of it takes place in Scotland! Does that mean I'd have to write in an authentic burr? An authentic 1874 Glaswegian burr. 'Cause I warn you, it'd be crap.
The other, while more up my alley, was all idea with no notion of what the hell the contents would be. Until a few years back when I had an epiphany, which allowed me to change the story into "what I know," she said, with written air quotes. I even outlined it!!! Got all my research organized. Wrote a few pages!!! And then set it aside for a few years, as one does. As one lazy sonofabitch does, I should say. A couple of months ago, though, I wrote five or so chapters. And I may well write more soon. Like how vague I am, dontcha? You don't think I'm gonna tell you anything about it, do you? Are you runk? I'm no fool. I've worried all these years that someone was gonna beat me to it, since it seems such an obvious tale to tell.
Anyway, back to writing. I can put sentences together. I can rattle on. Maybe I need an idea man? Some fella all ideas, yet a dullard with words. And I give good dialogue, too. Think of the screenplays I could write! Ho ho, I'm so never going to write a screenplay. Besides the fact that I don't know how, don't wanna. I've jumped on enough bandwagons. I wouldn't respect myself in the morning. Don't get me wrong, I respect the hell out of great screenwriters: some of my best friends are great screenwriters. It's the wannabes I can't respect. Not wannabes 'cause they haven't gotten a job yet, wannabes because they are poor poor craftsmen.
All right, genug. Any minute this caffeine is gonna go wrong and none of you wants to see that.
I think about you all the time. Especially, oddly, when I shower.
I'll try not to be a stranger (insert proper vaudeville response here: ).