(did you know ink and paper stole my tongue?
i can't ask for it back
so i write,
fingers sore,
stained in greasy shades
of blue, black and
an occasional felt-tip red)

And his name is Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

In the Foreward to "Breakfast of Champions" he says, "I wrote this book to clear all the junk out of my head."

I write for the same reason. And I have a lot of junk up there. Not good junk that would help me win on Jeopardy. Useless crap that I cannot begin to understand as to why my brain chose to cling on to this nugget of rancid trivia and chose to forget my wife's birthday (again).

For Example: Vanna White lost her virginity behind the thirteenth green of a golf course when she was fifteen.

Why do I know that? I don't want to know that... I can't wait until that information is no longer at my finger tips. But it is. And so I write.

It's funny, but we get these images of people based on the little tidbits of info they give you about themselves. Let's say, you work in corporate America and you have a 55 year old male boss, who always dresses perfectly in a suit and tie. He is a strong leader. He listens and hangs on to your every word. He doesn't smile easily, but when he does, everyone naturally smiles with him.

What do you know about him?

We (I) tend to conjure up an image of him in his personal life. I imagine him to have a wife that is always as perfectly dressed as he is. His children are all graduates of some ivy league college. His house is immaculate - just like his Mercedes that sits in the parking lot. I can see him sitting at his kitchen table reading the newspaper and drinking coffee each morning.

So what happens to my image of him when I see him outside of work? Let's say I see him, wearing shorts and long socks, pushing a grocery cart in Walmart, following behind his wife who is squeezing fruit in the produce section. BAM! My image has now changed and I want to know more.

So I push my cart over and say, "Hello, Mr. Boss." He falters for just a moment and then smiles - much more easily than he does in the office. He introduces his wife (who is far from the impeccable woman I had imagined - but rather very down to earth).

Then here comes the kicker. The wife says, "Yeah, we're just out grabbing a few last minute items before the big day tomorrow."

"Big day?" I say (cause I'm nosey)

"Yes" says the wife, "Didn't Mr. Boss tell you we are celebrating his ten year anniversary that he's been sober?" She nudges Mr. Boss, "AND..." she smiles, "It's the one year anniversary since our son has been sober. Isn't that amazing. I'm so proud of them both."

There goes my image of Mr. Boss. It isn't a worse image, it's just different, because now I know he has a story and I'm getting a little taste of what it is.

I write mainly to understand myself and the world I live in. I've always had a difficult time talking to people I've just met, so in an awkward social situation I have a tendency to observe others. I am constantly taking notes on what other people do and how they respond to certain situations and how they act differently around different people. I call it taking life notes.... I think writing is the ultimate vicarious act (and I'm not sure if I used that word correctly..)for a shy person like myself.

quote:

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Originally posted by beaniebailey:
I think it's in my blood. My father writes and draws so I did the same as a young child.

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Same with me. My brother and my father both wrote and drew. But I think I continued to write because I have something to say. A story to tell that I want to share.

Nope

<<fame?>>

Nope

<<sex?>>

You can write for sex? Man, I'm going to go through a new keyboard every week.

<<survival?>>

Uh...

<<Because you don't want to get a day job?>>

Wait, this isn't a poetry contest.

Why do I write?

Well... to enter contests, I guess.