Last Friday’s conversation, with a dash of Ethel

This is gonna to suck.

You’ve no free time whatsoever this weekend to go off and pretend play “writer”. So instead, you’re going to use up your lunch period today to shove one thousand plus words together into some sort of coherent thought, with hopefully a touch of literary “flourish” thrown in as well?

I’m telling you man, it won’t work. It’s gonna suck.

Why not skip a day? Why not just not post something on Monday? Weren’t you the one who just said today that the world would carry on regardless?

Well, yes, but they expect me to post on Mondays. You see, I always do. And besides, the week following that will find me not being able to post at all, as a result of my business trip.

“They.” Nice word choice. Is this the same “they” that will some day award you a publishing contract? You know, shortly after you and “they” are the only five people left on the planet?

Now, hold on. There’s a touch more than five. Besides, that’s not the point. Even if there was only one – like there was at the very beginning – I’d still stick to it. It’s important that I do.

Yeah? And why’s that?

Well, for my adoring fans, of course!

Cut the crap. I really want to know what the importance of all this is.

The hoped-for post-apocalyptic publishing contract?

Stop dicking around, and tell me why already! Why do you feel the need to thrice weekly write weakly? Why do you put so much time and effort into a task that garners you no cash, no advancement, and no visible benefit of any kind? What I’m asking is, is why do you spend every goddamned weekend pretending to be a writer?

WHY?

Wow. This just sort of turned ugly now, didn’t it.

Then just answer the fucking question already…

Fine. You wanna know “why”? You wanna really know? I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you, and then you’ll laugh at me and think even less of me, but I’ll tell you all the same, you son of a bitch.

I do this because I love it. All of it. I love being able to take two words and make each look prettier simply by placing them side-by-side. And I then love being able to repeat the process, until I have sentences full of pretty words. I love being able to take a seed of an inane thought and flesh it out into a diatribe one thousand plus words long. I love being able to bully pulpit my way through any number of topics, and wrap it all up with a little song at the end. And yes, I know I stole that last bit from Lance, it’s a good idea. And I’ll give him credit in due time… I love that burning feeling I get deep within in my gut whenever a new topic bubbles up. A burn that pushes me – sometimes even out of my sleep – to write it all down before it vanishes from my head, vanishes from existence.

I love the writing process, even if it’s done from my tiny phone keyboard late at night, after being awoken from the burn. Hell, I even get a little hard when I find *just the right* picture to accompany my posts. I love it all. And I love reading the other writings, from the other writers – most of whom are far more talented than I. I love the community of it all, the Tribe. I love the fact that people I will never meet have still inspired, educated and transformed me. Made me laugh, cry and feel things I’ve never felt before, or at least not felt nearly enough. And I love knowing that – again – most do it not for profit or gain, but simply because they too hearken to, and enjoy the burn. They too, love to create. And yeah, I actually do love checking my little stats tab every morning to see how many read me the day before. I love the fact that the numbers keep climbing, that I’m somehow being embraced by this Tribe. Recognized.

But most importantly, I love this “weekly writing weakly” because of everything else I have ever done, it is only the second instance in my life in which I find that I am literally forced into being proud of myself. Why? Because there is no one else at this beaten up and bruised keyboard with me. Every little dollop that falls to the screen does so from my own head. I must take the blame for everything that appears here, and I must also take the credit. There are no Drill Instructors that I can say did more than I. There are no friends or family that I can say helped in my endeavors. There are no coworkers who can share in any forthcoming success. No, similar to my first instance of forced pride – when I quit smoking – there is not one other living soul who I can blame for this blog, it’s mental meanderings or it’s potential success. And I love it because it’s good. Not perfect, but good. Damned good. And I did that. And after forty-two overdue years, it feels exhilarating to finally be able to take this kind of pride in myself.

And that’s why I love it. OK? Will that suffice into shutting you the fuck up now?

Will it?

Yeah. It will. I get it.

And hey, I’m proud of you too.

But you do realize, this post still does kinda suck, right?

Now, why don’t you wrap it all up with a pretty song, and let these good people go until Wednesday.

Right. Can do.

Here goes – a ditty to help me pummel through all the weekend crap I need to get done before weekend’s end…

(Bet you can’t listen to whole thing…)