Thursday, March 14, 2013

Don the cape

I had yet another Light bulb moment.  I Am a Writer.  This realization knocked me clean into Kentucky and wasn't something that happened overnight.  It happened probably as soon as I was old enough to put two words together and make my first sentence. I was a Writer even back then.  My only fan was my sister.  my quirky confidant; we were twon polar opposites stuck in a family that thought girls were useless and reminded of that notion.   Endlessly.  My sister, who is 6 years older than me was like the Poster Child of Nerdom.  She could've probably won awards for it, but instead, was bullied and messed with because she was smart and different.   I love every bit of that Nerd, because she taught me to write and to think and to Dream.  She taught me that just because I was cute and blonde, I needed to use my brain not my looks, because sooner or later, the hair would turn colors (she checked Daily!) and my looks would change.  Thanks, sis...thanks a lot.
In addition to my tutelage from my sister, I wasn't doing normal kid things like the other kids in my 'hood. Instead of making tree houses and pretend bat caves, I was sequestered on one of those lawn chairs of the 70's, where you wear the imprint of the webbing on your ass all day.  I studied the thesaurus.  Yep,  I became a wordsmith at the ripe old age of 6.  I would sit there for hours looking up words and writing poems and stories.   I got accolades from my first grade teacher for my poems and even got published in the local newspaper.  I still have the article to this day - 'Squeaky the Mouse' made it in the paper next to the ad for gas for a buck and the obituaries.  My poem, "War, War...What is it for?" made it as far as my first grade teachers bulletin board, as the subject matter was too advanced for a kid like me to write about.  It dealt with the atrocities of war from the innocent eyes of a 7 year old kid.  Mind blowing that it was over looked and misunderstood, but I was a kid in the Midwest, so go figure.  
Over time, I've written and scraped many poems, kept more journals than there are volumes of the encyclopedia.   When I was unattached, I used to befriend guys online to test drive my stories.  I had given up finding a guy that understands me for Me, so instead I seasoned my dialogue with just the right kick to keep them wanting more. They fell in love with my writing, but never got as far - or as near - as looking into my eyes and seeing the depth my heart could truly go.  I put a limit on my spending as far as my writing went. I was very frugal with my stories and poems, as I knew if I 'sold out', I could never really have my souls secrets to myself anymore,.  That's why they call them secrets after all.  I preferred to be a bit of a ghost writer to these men that swooned over my words, as the confidence faded when time comes to actually meet the someone that has fallen...for my writing.  The risk of maybe someday someone Getting me was a tightrope I was not quite willing to walk.  How about if they reject me - say my work is stupid?  No way, no how. I always kept a metaphorical baseball bat at my side in case someone failed to see my tender heart lay behind my mellifluous words. 
Fast forward to my Light Bulb moment.  That thing I was getting to that I had to take 3 or more paragraphs, before editing, to explain.  The thing I need to focus on is not if my writing wins other people over, but if it wins Me over.  I'm not looking to fall in love with a reader, because then I would become the 13th Disney Princess and become animated and buxom.    I needed to fall in love with myself, with my writing; see that I have purpose and unleash my guarded heart, not settle for Mr. Almost.  .


Once burned
lessons learned
twice shy
stupid guy
wants to look for something more
sounds like Macys closed at 4

Told me he's a fragile man
Can't you buy that in a can?
Think I'll put him on a shelf
Sell him for a penny
Give him free if you don't mind
I'm calling in his nanny

More is betta
so he said
I though that meant in money
Conquests are a dime a dozen
 I don't think its funny 

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