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Saturday, June 5, 2010

The "why"...

I have no solid idea as to why I have a need to write. Yet it is a need as it fulfills something. I suppose the actuality could provide yet another therapist with a down payment on a lake house but it's really not important.

I guess it began with reading. I learned to read very early and found a wonderful escape in books and stories. As my reality in childhood was something I escaped at any given opportunity, reading was an acceptable departure.

Books; stories, comics-didn't matter-all of them took me places I would certainly rather be.

My earliest attempts at writing were what one could call, odd. I remember writing a story about a boy who was so scared of girls he would vomit every time one would one would speak to him. It was only two pages and I showed my Dad, in hindsight never a good idea, and he wadded the pages up and called them "shit".

"Hemingway never wrote shit like this!" I was eleven. No pressure.

So I wrote in secret.

I don't think I showed anyone. But I kept reading. And the more I read, the more I had to. Once puberty hit I learned that girls liked poetry. Never could get behind the rhyming verse, but free style was more my thing. Plus there were no rules to follow. If there were I would have broken them readily.

There is nothing so angsty and ridiculous as a male teen writing morose "no one understand me" poetry." I shudder at the memory and apologize to anyone that ever had the misfortune of reading any.

Then came the "literary outlaws" that defined me in my twenties. I almost killed myself with drugs and alcohol trying to keep up. But to be honest, I never wrote anything of any substance until I got sober. I think it was more the "I'm a creative rebel, no one understands me, fuck convention," posture that females of a certain type found attractive.

Do I detect a theme? Probably.

Writing is something I've always done. Even when making a living for a wife and family by living a life I hated, it was still my safety valve.

Made my living for a couple of years a a journalist. In reality one of the most stifling, pressure filled careers I could think of. But I was published. And on the front page. That in itself kept me going long after the politics and rules had choked the creative side of me into a blue, twitching, mess.

If I could make a living writing what I wanted, it would be a perfect world, but until then...

I'll sleep late, cook for a living, and keep living, one day at a time.

My new disclaimer...yeah I know.

Okay, the old disclaimer was tired. The ideas were outdated and keeping me stuck in a place I don't want to be now for something more refreshing.

I have recently changed my views regarding women. Seems I had some issues with the fairer sex due to past pain and self- centered fear. (Yes...duh applies.)

I'm done with that.

Being in recovery has helped me change my entire life, perceptions and attitudes. I cannot change my history but I can change my today and my future.

I recently realized that the women I know in recovery are some of the strongest, bravest, most gentle and kind teachers I have ever had. You exemplify integrity and spiritual growth, and I hope you know who you are.

Some may know of my past marital and relationship history and been a participant in them as well. It's past and that's where it the past.

I own my part in those failures but claim no more responsibility in any misery you may be experiencing. I am sorry, but it's time to get off the cross. We need the wood.

Thank you all...