warming up....

Nobody ever said that you were a writer. Not even you. I mean, sure, your later grade teachers said you should write more, but that was only because they wanted to give more homework, right?

When you sit there late at night wondering where you are, and how you got to be here, you don't really question it all to hard. I mean you are where you are because you followed your chosen path, right? Maybe you didn't choose that path, but maybe that path was decided for you, and you followed it just the same. Shame on you, then. How can you complain about where you are if you didn't really question it while you were getting there?

How can you write about all of it if you're still scared? I mean, what if your mom finds out that you smoked cigarettes, or even marijuana? Maybe she finds out that you stayed out all night in the middle of junior high, in the middle of a field exploring your sexuality, and maybe even someone else's? What if that kind of shit gets out there and is public knowledge? You will never live it down, now, will you? Or maybe you will, maybe you'll find yourself relieved of a burden that you never thought you carried. Maybe the release that you've been looking for has been found, and you're ready to open up, and tell all.

But then you find that there's nothing to tell. There isn't a single iota of interesting crap to write about. oh sure, you could write about the frozen pizza that sits next to you, or your wife that passed out ten minutes ago in the chair next to you twenty minutes ago... but neither seems particularly interesting, or even fair, for that matter.

But you did it. You sat down and wrote something. Didn't you? I mean, look at all the words up there. There they are, all put together by you, in your little order, to take on your little meaning. You little writer you.

Better to keep the microscope aimed inward, at least for now, while you get used to this keyboard. Who knows where this keyboard has been. And what kind of pizza it has had spilled on it..