OK readers, what gives?
True, I’m not the Blog Superhero. I don’t have the time to post every day. Each story/post (except this one) takes hours to produce. A story is a fireball of energy that builds from within, sometimes for decades, and explodes into the keyboard in an instant of emotion and/or fury. After the initial outburst comes editorial reflection. An hour, at least, of restructuring, arguing with self over unnecessary verbage. No editor yet… I’m not that important.
Humor is very hard to write. Comics who write their own material are amazing. Talk show hosts get help from their staff. Bloggers are self-contained staffs of one, the loneliest number. (Heard that in an old song.) Old boys like me rely on personal experience, something my 16-year-old genius son thinks is irrelevant. I hope to live long enough for him to recant that one.
Sick today, or you wouldn’t be reading this. My job is hard on the body. Months of physical abuse catch up to me sometimes. This time, I’ve been down five days running. No vacation time until February. Previous employment was easy, and my body aged gracefully. Then, that piece of cake was crumbs. Three years of unemployment including two years of intense college courses, accelerated the aging process. Found my two steps forward left me actually five behind.
So, I drive a bus to sustain us. Awkward rhyme, but reality often is. When I stepped on the treadmill of adulthood, I was a paid writer. Journalism became dishwashing which begat a career in printing, leaving me to drive a rig around the country, to fixing computers. Then this. I love to drive; yet writing is my true love.
Which brings me to greed. For money? Not really, but being paid for what I love would certainly be delicious. The greed I suffer from is readership. Am I good enough? Perhaps not yet. That comes with persistence, practice, relentless self-promotion. Some people just aren’t bestseller material. That fear, which we shun, remains an ignored shadow. It is quite possible I will only be paid with the satisfaction that someone enjoyed my words.
My father was a wonderful musician. His talent far outmatched many who made millions sharing their craft with the world. Yet he felt no need for fame, being a truly modest man. Watching his hands (sans pick) produce magic on his classical guitar, it seemed a shame only a few heard him play. His voice was magnificent. Unlike those who “made it” however, he refused to perform what others wanted to hear. The old ballads he gave us were true to the lives we led. Plus, he said having been given a gift by God, singing was to His glory alone.
Since I’ve emulated my father, perhaps it’s fitting if I don’t “make it”. Maybe I’m only meant to touch the lives of a few, as Dad’s music did. But I’m greedy, unlike Dad. Nowhere near that humble. I want my words absorbed by legions of eager readers. Artists may believe they’re good enough to reach above the masses among them. Yet many are only fooling themselves… they believe something which isn’t true. But that belief we share is called hope, a confidence that with hard work anything is possible. Wait, I’m waxing Obamic.
Time for a nap here, plus I’ve probably made you drowzy too. I love you, dear reader. Sweet dreams.