You know what’s worse than bad sex? Ambivalent sex. Like sex by numbers or some such shit. So mediocre that it just is. I knew it was going to be the last time ever because of that feeling of ambivalence. It was almost like “welp, there’s nothing else for us to do, so let’s do each other”. There was no sweetness or bitterness in the goodbye. There was no sentimentality nor love loss. Just…whatever we had gently passed through the space leaving behind a heaping serving of awkwardness in its wake. No need for further words or empty promises. It was the end.
My daddy is the only person in my life who is consistent. When he says he’s gonna do something he does. If he cannot do something he is upfront. My daddy is kind. My daddy is patient. My daddy cares. He is not perfect, far from it he’ll be the first to tell you. But even as a work in process, he is everything to me. My daddy is my first best friend, my biggest cheerleader and confidant. Whenever I’m struggling, he just knows. And is there.
And I love him for it. I love that dude so much it hurts. Happy father’s day, GRD.
Whenever I’m at an event with a literary slant, the question I dread most comes within the first five minutes of conversation.
“So…are you a writer?”
Everything about this question obliterates my soul every time I am asked. That elliptical pause. The slight tilt up the voice takes on in the last syllable. The emphasis on the word “you”. All of it, I can’t take. To be honest, I do not think of myself as a Writer. I am person who is in love with language. I am a voracious reader (seriously, hit me on GoodReads). I have a firm grasp on the rules of grammar and syntax. All hubris aside, my vocabulary is award-worthy. But that’s about all. Don’t get me wrong, I will string a few words together here and there, when the mood strikes. But a Writer?? NAWL.
To me a Writer is someone that immerses themselves in all things devoted to the craft of writing. A Writer consistently configures words in ways that cause people to rethink their definition of said words. A Writer engages. A Writer evokes emotion. A Writer is consistent.
I have a big problem with consistency(see: www.readingwhileriding.net). I am easily distracted and that leads to unfinished pieces. A few hundred unfinished pieces, does not a Writer make. I want to be a Writer though. I want to live for the written word. I want to subsist on turning phrases and crafting works so beautifully written that they make people FEEL.
I’m so afraid. So terribly afraid. What if they don’t like it? What if *I* don’t like it? Am I thickskinned enough for criticism? I know I can dish it out, but can I really take it? I don’t want to be one of those disillusioned folks who have been told by yes men that they’re talented when they obviously aren’t. I’ve had friends (& some virtual strangers) tell me that I’m a good writer, but what is good? Subjective conjecture at its finest is what good is. And who’s to say that what they consider good would be good enough for the greater they?
See…it’s these doubts that creep in that keep me from calling myself a writer. I’d feel like a fraud claiming to be something to which I only aspire. Maybe I should call myself a writer-in-progress…hmmm…
Y’all. So I’ve been crying off and on since Saturday. Something amazingly kind happened to me that day and I’m all emotional about it. Because of this kind act, I am able to go to Vegas in July to see one of my oldest and dearest friends tie the knot with her beloved. Now I’ve had friends get married before and I was appropriately happy for them, but something’s different this time.
This girl and I, we go back. WAY back to a hot August day in 1996 when my ill-prepared self left my pens/pencils at home on the first day of school and I had to ask the nice Asian gal next to me to borrow a pen or pencil in Mrs. Radkiewicz English I A Academic class. Through the ridiculousness of high school we made it. Through my ridiculousness of undergrad we made it. Now she’s somebody’s mama and soon to be somebody’s wife and we’re still making it.
I don’t have a lot of friends. I know a fair amount of people and have good relationships with them, but there aren’t many who I call “friend” and mean it wholeheartedly. She is one of them. Words cannot express how ecstatic I am for this new chapter in her life as well as the fact that I will be able to be one of a select few who will bear witness.
So I’m Carl Thomasing all over the place (“Look at me, I can’t stop crying…”) because I’m incredibly happy for my friend.