I don’t write to be famous, I don’t write to be known, I write because I am and I want to be read. How sad to fill a room with paintings no one sees or play music no one hears. Writing is talking without sound, singing without score and dancing without movement and yet, it is all of them. It is a solitary art conjured from thought and expressed by the need to communicate.

HEAD-SLAPS, SPEED-BUMPS and LIGHT-BULBS, one woman's WTF, oops and ah-ha moments of life.

They were published once, and as every writer knows, once is not enough.



Sunday, June 2, 2013

Who am I, there at the end of the bar?



When you’ve known someone a long time, or worked with the same people at the same place for years, when you’ve been married to the same person for decades and your children are grown and they have spouses who have been around awhile, every story you tell, they’ve heard before. I hate that.
 
When I pull up a story to back-up a point it’s, “mom we’ve heard all about that”. When my husband pisses me off it’s, “don’t go there,” he says, “I’ve heard that before”. My friends, my co-workers, “you already told us that story”, but they are polite, “go ahead and tell us again”. I hate that too.

It’s happening on blog posts now and in comments and even in my column. I have to recycle stuff because either I’ve lost my sense of observation or my life is just too damn boring.

I’d like to be the new kid in town for a change, the kid everybody is curious to know about. Growing up I lived in twenty-seven different houses and went to nine different schools, (a recycled blog post way back when I was Wry Wryter), so I know what it’s like to be the person people are curious about. Now, not so much; everybody knows just about everything.

What’s it like to be a stranger, to ride into town, slip into the local bar, sit at the end of the booze runway and watch the locals make asses of themselves? What’s it like to be an outsider? Considering how outsiders are treated these days maybe long-lived-local is better.  

Maybe it’s time I start telling folks about the side of me no one knows, problem is I’m not sure what that side is or even if it exists. Do we all have a part about us which remains hidden?
Let’s see, I’m afraid of the dark and I have a great story about why I am. If I’m brave enough I might write about it.

3 comments:

  1. The thing is, there will always be new people coming to you blog/column/life, and for them your old stories will be new. I wouldn't worry too much about it either way and just go about your work.

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    1. Yeah Paul,when my newest son-in-law showed up on the scene as a serious suitor we were all sitting around the table talking and laughing. When I launched into one of my comments based on enlightenment, everyone groaned because they had heard the story a dozen times...not so the new young man, he listened attentively while everyone made fun of me; it was really quite comical. Anyway, I guess that's what they mean by the term 'fresh meat'. Now he's almost heard them all.

      So Paul, have you heard the one about...

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  2. I recently shocked a group of friends when we were playing cards. Alcohol definitely played part in me revealing an untold story. I find nothing wrong with sitting at a booze runway listening to strangers. If I sit there long enough I just might tell them something new.

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