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.



Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Off the burner


Posting here seems like a distant memory.
 
I'm so busy with my column, and with editing my resurrected project, that I have pushed my lonely little blog, not only on the back burner, but right off the damn stove.

It’s funny how something written so long ago can still be timely and still relevant. That some thoughts are as permanent as eye color, and others as fleeting as changing outfits, surprises me. Conundrum that I am, (steadfast in my beliefs and ever changing), I have grown. I am not afraid to admit how, (at times), off the mark my pen was and not shy about touting the perfectly stated point.
 
 HEAD-SLAPS, SPEED-BUMPS AND LIGHTBULBS,
One woman’s WTF, oops and ah-ha moments of life.

Yup, it’s finally, an almost there (updated) book. From the late eighties until now, my published opinions, triumphs, trip-ups and tragedies are a living metaphor for women, writers and other humans. It’s about the force and fallout of why I wrote what I wrote and what happened after, with life smoothing or chipping away at the edges.
 
So, who the hell am I?
I am a minnow in a mud puddle.
Why would anyone want to read my memoir/essay/WTF is it book?
To overuse a cliché, I am every woman, unless I am not. In which case...

See ya on the other side of final edits when the real work begins.