People always tell me I should be a writer. I’ve heard it to the point that it has become a thorn in my side. I always thought I didn’t have anything to really write about. But it turns out that it doesn’t really matter as much what you have to say, as it does how you say it.
I help people with their resumes; people who are clueless and under qualified. I beef up their credentials and they have nice legs, and before you know it they are on their way to the top. “So, what have you done in the past?” I will ask. And they will inevitably tell me something ridiculous. For instance, “Well, I sold an expired box of Pepto Bismol at a yard sale once.” And I say, “Great, I can work with that!” Then I turn to the keyboard and type “previous experience in pharmaceutical sales.”
I don’t write about smoking cigarettes, I write about shadowy fingers of smoke drifting into the moonlit air; dissipating before me like the dreams of my youth. I don’t eat chips and salsa; I slowly savor the perfect blend of crisp, salted corn and tangy, fresh chilled tomatoes. I don’t merely listen to my iPod; instead I sit ever so quietly; melting into the chair as the haunting notes of an electric guitar engulf my senses. All the hype is really sort of crappy.
She sat in the rickety chair and brought the frosty can to her lips, allowing the marriage of carbonation and fruity flavor to delicately burn her throat as she swallowed. Her mind raced to the point of frustration; her thoughts flooding her sanity until emotion could no longer be contained and her feelings overflowed on to the page. No I didn’t. I drank a Fresca and wrote a blog.
***I created this blog in January of 2011, but I also posted items previously written (the post date is the date that I wrote them). I share them with you and hope that my words give you something; anything. Please feel free to comment. I’d love to hear what you have to say.