And we’re back. Not sure where I went really or why it’s taken me so long to return. I could blame my lengthy absence in the blogosphere on writer’s block, but that would be a lie. There’s always something to write about and I have post-it notes full of entry ideas I’ve jotted down.
Truthfully I don’t have to dig too deeply into the pit of my psyche to know the reason why. I find the cemetaries of blogs erected in our social media world demotivating. Monuments with a start date just waiting for an end date. Everyone on the planet is an author now and I haven’t figured out how my epitaph is any more unique than yours. Besides, the coolest moniker has already been taken by the Bloggess, whom I have come to regard as a great storyteller but a horrible writer.
Once upon a time I believed my writing would amount to something. But gone are the days when teachers would read my work to the class and I’d feel proud. I think Mrs. Novak, my grade 7 English teacher swallowed a little part of my soul one day when she did that.
Inspired by Artemisia Gentileschi, I wrote about a narcissist who believes she is being stalked by an artist who painted her portrait, but it turns out she is the delusional artist who painted herself. Through lipstick stained teeth, Mrs. Novak commended the beautiful writing but chided it for making no sense. “Even fantasy has to have some grounding in reality,” she commented while waving her hands to indicate the whole thing was crazy. After that critique I abandoned fictional writing and stuck with factual journalism until I abandoned that too.
Robin Battye had a different take on the piece Mrs. Novak read. He was a classmate, now that I think about it that looked remarkably like what you’d expect Sheldon Cooper to look like in grade 7. I just Googled him and if it’s the same Robin, he hasn’t changed much and I’m not a bit surprised to see that he has a post doc in neurobiology. Kudos to Robin. Back then he was an enrichment kid who wore a hooded red sweatshirt that was covered in badges. One of them said, “I can read” and some smart ass that sat behind him changed it to say, “I can’t read.”
Robin poignantly wanted to know why everything I wrote was sleazy. If you’re reading this Robin, I have no fucking clue but maybe if I would have kept it up the world would never have been subjected to 50 Shades of Grey.