Tuesday, November 12, 2013


  So I'm reading a book. It's a wonderfully expressive account of one woman's journey with bipolar. She's funny and snarky and real and matter of fact. She has an excellent vocabulary and uses it with great skill.

And she totally intimidates the shit out of me.

  I've been told that I write well. I've been told, by more than one person and on more than one occasion to write my story into a book.
Not-a-gonna-happen my friends. Not after reading this book. There's no way that I can come anywhere near this woman's talent.
Afterall, it is she that has so helpfully put into words so many of the things that I have been feeling and thinking but just couldn't articulate.

And besides, no one wants to read about all the shitty things that I've lived through. I don't even wanna hear about all the shitty things that I've lived through.

  But I love writing. I love getting it down, getting it out of myself. Like somehow releasing a balloon: no one else is going to get it and that's ok. It was mine, I let it go "into the great wide open" as Tom Petty so aptly wrote. Such a great song. Boy if that isn't some pertinent prose. If you're unfamiliar with the song I highly suggest you give it a whirl.

So yeah.
There's that.
Again, out there. Outside of me. No longer held captive by that which might stifle it down into the abyss that threatens the whole.

My mind has wandered again.

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