And Another Thing...

Sorry about the double postings on one day, but it's my blog and I can do what I want. I have this juicy tidbit about one or more Jonas brothers and I...just kidding.

It occurs to me that I might wish to explain myself and why, after three previous blogs (all of them gone, except for the stupid one I started and then never got around to from earlier this summer) I feel the need to write yet another one. It's simple, really, and it's the motivation for most of the things I do in my life, for good or ill.

That's right, it's because of a girl.

Specifically, I was reading a friend's recent note on Facebook (one of those websites that seems to be popular with the kids, I don't know it much myself except for that I'm on there whenever I get online in the hopes that someone will be impressed because I "like" Roberto Bolano or the Cure) in which she talked about how hard it is to write and send stuff off because of fear of rejection or just fear of putting yourself out there. After offering some advice which amounted to "you must try to send your stuff out, otherwise no one will read it," I had an epiphany.

I'm a bit of a hypocrite.

Granted, in my defense I'd been busy since early June trying to get some form of employment (the cause of which I might get into later, but suffice it to say that I didn't have much else to think about), so writing my own little things wasn't a big concern compared to paying my bills. And though I tried my damnedest to find something where I could write for money, such jobs were not forthcoming. It's one of those "you have to have experience for this job, but in order to have experience you have to have this job" situations that many people find themselves stuck in. A catch-....some sort of number, I think. Catch-18?

Anyway, it's all well and good to tell someone else that they should pursue their dreams of writing, it's another thing to do it yourself, or to get back in the saddle after you've had the wind knocked out of you. I got lazy working where I did, I'll admit it; trying to send material out for publishers to read didn't seem to be as big a deal when I had a steady paycheck and a job I loved. I'm trying to work on that now, making time to write while also not starving because I don't have money. This is one small step into that deep pool, and the damn thing is I can't swim a lick so the metaphor loses its meaning if you would literally drown in a realistic circumstance.

I just confused the hell out of myself.

So yeah, this is kind-of for her, kind-of for myself (see, self, you can write! Write away, young scribbler!), and kind-of for (I hope) the people out there who like to read a thirty-something musing away about life and other stuff. All two of you.

Enjoy!