Still looking, years down the road,,,

I wasn’t looking for heaven or hell, just someone to listen to the stories I tell,,,,

I think that sums up EVERY writer, blogger, journalist (in the classic sense,,)

Everyone has a story, EVERYONE, some just ‘live them’, others need to tell them, and for some, its a measure of both,,, we get these stories, they come alive in our heads, the characters are as real as you and me, with minds of thier own and motivations not ‘ours’ and the story unfolds behind our eyelids and NEEDS released.

One of my turning moments was when I was stationed in Kalifruitopia,,,   Seems everyone out there has a story and wants to tell it to you.  You would meet someone at the beach or the coffeeshop and suddenly the word spill would begin and next thing you knew, you had their entire history, real or not, and all the complications they attend to on the day to day, and they were your friend like no other,,,   Fleetingly, but there,,,  

This was new to a kid from the mid-west where silence is golden; where holding your life in check and silence was expected.   Suddenly I had an acceptable vent to pressures that had previously been vented in violent rages, or solitary breakdowns in the woods.

Blogging has given me my ‘audience’ that I haven’t had IRL(read: meatspace) for ages (well, fifteen years or so,,,)  and for that I thank you, my readers.   I try to give you something of substance, but sometimes, I only need your ears, to hear the stories I tell, to let the pressure subside for a moment and give space to the real characters in my head to grow into words on pages.   There are many of them, spread out over many documents, all growing, all expanding, some faster than others, and all distracting me at times, and I need to vent to keep sane, or I start living THIER lives for them: that can be quite difficult when my life is here and now; real life is strange enough without adding the dimension of artifice.

Whatever the above means to you, know I appreciate the ears you provide (or eyes as this case may be,,,)  “I wasn’t looking for wreathes or for bells: just someone to listen to the stories I tell,, “

(afterthoughts) as for “I wasn’t looking for wreathes or for bells,,,,” : sort of a gray area there,,,, Yes, I would like to make a living as a writer, NO, I am not willing to sign on with those companies that promise you best selling status in a world full of bullshit promises,,, I know I have a learning curve ahead of me, I am late to the game, and the entire world is going topsy-turvy in ways no one can predict,,, I hold no illusions about my skills as a writer, I can, have and will again, and if it makes ANY amount of cash, its a plus,,,,

But I am not Hemingway, or Tolkien or Heinlein: I am flat humbled when someone gives my book, Wings, a thumbs up or fivestars,,, Flattered even,, but I know its a rough, freshman writer book and needs polish and promotion to do anything more than it has. I’m good with that,,, and will (eventually) get that re-write finished and cleaned up by some pro ($$$ and I know it)

Maybe someday there will be a flow of cash coming in, but I won’t hold my breath over it. I will publish more, but I am in that learning curve of edit from rough to submission to editors to publication and promotion, and I found there is TON more to learn and then I will likely find I only touched the surface. Good with that too.

Fact is, I write now because to not write is painful: like over-eating at the chinese buffet. You feel bloated and stuffed to the gills, and the ideas don’t stop, ever,,, They come at you sideways in the middle of the day/night and won’t leave you be until you ‘at least’ jot some notes down. And the longer you put that off,,, well, it ain’t good, I can tell you that. The feeling is almost like losing a loved one,,, the idea fritters off to the next writer or something (or is cast back into the void until a later date for someone else to pick up,,, I have no real idea, just making shit up) and leaves behind this empty area in your soul that feels like breaking up or losing someone close to you suddenly. You know there was something there, and only vague memories remain, so vague, its like trying to remember the face of the first person you ever kissed: you know it happened, but there are HUGE missing peices of the puzzle.

Anywhoos,,, y’all have a good day today and know I thank you greatly for just showing up and listening to me wander around my soul and psyche and other wyrd stuff.