I AM A Writer!!!

Why blog?  I mean, seriously, why even do this?  What is it about what I have bouncing around in my brain that compels me to blurt it out to the universe?  What makes me think anyone cares or that my opinions or observations are worth noting by other people.  Why would anyone want to click on my blog and see what is on my mind or what my cat is doing or how my house renovations are coming along.

I think this is something that creative type people ask themselves (if they are even self aware enough to care) and it really is inexplicable**.  Well that is kinda silly— it is somewhat explicable;  why else even try?

I have this constant inner monologue going on in my head.  I assume it is only in my head since no one else seems to hear it.  If it were audible it would sound like that movie trailer guy “In A World Where You Can Hear What Is Going On In Geeez’s Head….”  I don’t really know if this is how it is for everyone because when I try to ask I get this weird look from people.  When I go about my life I often hear myself translating the things I see and do into something like a screenplay.

Fade in to LeAnn’s Bedroom— the room is dark except for the  glow peeking our around the vertical blinds anticipating another sunrise….

She hears a strange sound that interrupts the kiss she was about to share with Harry, the long haired, blind surfer dude…  and she looks to her best friend Reese Witherspoon to see if she hears it too… when her dream is interrupted by the klaxon that is her wake up call…

She slaps at her cell phone attempting to silence the beast into submission…. or at least stun the damn thing into a few more minutes of silence as she tries to find her way back to Harry and his long flowing locks of hair that he brushes from his sightless eyes.

But he is gone.  A lumpy pillow a pathetic substitution.  She rolls over and snatches the mask off her face that is that it attached to the machine that makes her breathe properly while she sleeps and knows it is just as well;  Harry might be turned off by that Cpap machine any how…..  It just isn’t sexy.

 

Everything I see if sized up for visual value:  Is it interesting?  Is it beautiful?  Should I try to take a picture?  Will someone be offended and beat me up?   Can I snap a pic while I am driving?  Do the orange plastic block things that make me laugh and see something else— will they have mass appeal?  How many pictures can I take and post of my grandchild before people get bored?    Is there a story there?  Can I conjure a story there?  

My friend tells me about a writer who has written a book about writing    You Are A Writer (So Start Acting Like One)  by Jeff Goins.   So I read it.  And it speaks to me (not in an audible way— that is ridiculous).   And I acknowledge:  I Am A Writer.   Regardless of who reads what I write or how well it is reviewed:  I Am A Writer.  I do it for myself.  I do it because I have to.  It needs to come out.  My brain needs to send it out there so all that thought doesn’t back up and bounce around. 

But I also need an audience.  I need people to play to.  To bounce off of.  I want to feel like I am adding something to the lives of people who share these things that I blurt out.  I want to feel connected.  I want to find my people— my audience– my ‘tribe’ and I want to hear what they have learned and I want them to hear what I have learned.  I want to share with people how I have learned that feeling like you are ‘normal’ is a short bus to insanity because there just isn’t enough evidence to nail down what ‘normal’ is.  There are too many variables.  I want to share with people what my struggle has been with my parents over the years as they aged and their health failed and they died holding my hand.  I want to share the complications of relationships that finds me trying to understand how I could love them and yet be so detached from them all at the same time.  I want to share with people that you are never going to feel resolved about caring for aged parents and that the public face we put on is often hiding the private struggles of that stage of life.  I want to share that not every grandparent meets the news of their impending grandparenthood with excitement and joy.  Not every grandparent gets to spoil their little ones and send them home.  But not everyone gets to know that child in an intimate way that only living and parenting them can give you.  I want to tell people that they are not alone in their experience— whatever that may be.  I don’t want to feel alone in mine either.

I want to write a book.  Books.  Quirky tell all books about my weird family.  Science Fiction books about Time Travel. Non-fiction thoughts about how to honor your parents.  I want to paint pictures with words.  And make people laugh.  I want to incite discussion.  And inspire them to…. to… everything.

Some of you wondered why I jumped from my original blog  GeeezLoueez@blogspot.com  to this new blog.  I have tried to explain why I did but maybe not sufficiently.  Partly I did this because it is logistically easier to write here.  But to leave it at that would be disingenious**  I need to build a platform, an audience, a following.  If I am to publish I need to practice my craft and learn to discipline my time and process.  I need to be able to learn how to pitch ideas to publishers and magazines.  I need to show proof of viability.  So I need you guys.  

In the words of those classic wordsmiths themselves, Cheap Trick  “I Want You To Want Me”

 And To Help With Your Vocabulary:

adj. beyond comprehension, explanation
 
disingenuous [dis-in-jen-yoo-uh s]
adj. lacking in frankness, candor, or sincerity; falsely or hypocritically ingenuous; insincere:
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2 Comments on “I AM A Writer!!!

  1. Just as I read about the orange blocks, a picture appeared to the right in your Instagram link. I was cracking up! It’s like a plastic emoji. And yes, you are a writer. Write (right) on, sister.

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