Ahhhh... a long awaited day off. On top of that, the temperature here in the PNW has dropped 20 degrees and the rain has returned. I feel nearly normal again. Or at least less like a stranger in a strange land.
I was struck by something Jonathan said last night (he, fresh off the Bourgeois Alaskan cruise). He said, "I thought I wanted to be a writer, but I find that I can only write about thoughts and principles that are important to me. I think real writers do it for the sake of writing alone." I said, "Huh. I never thought about that. I like to write just because I like to write." "Well," he responded. "There you go."
My biggest obstacle is time - the time to let myself dive into the pond and stay swimming for a while. I have a zillion ideas and don't implement them because I don't want to start something I can't be devoted to. Of course, some of that is my fault in terms of prioritizing. I need to make time. I need to get some of the stories out before I'm gone and the stories are gone with me. Particularly, in looking at the bits of memorabilia that my Grandma gave me, I want to get her story "out there." It's well worthy of the telling, and who better to tell it than me, her greatest fan? Who better to lay it down than the Gypsy girl with paprika in her veins? I've got the story. It's been written and rewritten in my head a hundred times over.
I've begun to realize that the men I'm most attracted to are men who can tell a good story, guys who can paint a picture so clear that I can smell the air in their scene. Sure, some of it's the sound of the voice, the timbre and tumble of the words. But it's more than that, it's the ability they have to take me with them where they've gone. John had that ability mastered. So does Scott. So does Jonathan. Never having been there, I've felt the heat of the dusty desert John grew up in, I've heard the chattering street vendors as I've walked the streets of Tibet with Scott, I've felt the stinging blows from the drunken thugs who beat up on Jonathan in St. Petersburg. I'm not nearly as skilled as they are with spinning a verbal yarn, but with putting words on a page? Yeah, I think I can do that. I've been told that I can do that. Hell, I've been told that I should do that.
Aim small, miss small. Find the target. It's a matter of focus and locution.
"If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn't brood. I'd type a little faster."