I fancy myself a writer. No, I’ve never been published, unless you count the time a poem I wrote for a contest was ‘chosen’ for a coffee table tome entitled Our Western Worlds Greatest Poems…and it only cost me fifty bucks! It didn’t take me long to realize that everyone who submitted a poem to that particular contest got published and got relieved of their cash all at the same time. Ha! But, hey, it could have been worse. Some suckers paid more to have their pictures added to their great works. I chose to go visually unheralded as it were. So myself and all the other Great Poets began our careers with a published poem and lighter wallets, but, thanks to OWWGP I’ve kept the fire burning (cliche, I know) and have cont’d to write, albeit intermittently so, for all these years.
The writing takes various forms…sometimes short stories, sometimes song lyrics, sometimes screenplays, sometimes a weird hybrid between a life hack and a haiku (I know, right?)but, it’s always been there. And, why shouldn’t it be? After all, I am a Great Poet, and that’s what we do (wink).
So, with age, or as I like to call it…forward progress, I’ve whittled down and concentrated my ideas into the short story format and bloggish writings such as this. But, even Great Poets need to take a break and find some inspiration. There are many ways I do this. Surfing the web. Reading. Going for a run. Listening to music. And, the one I love the most, playing with my dogs. Those two little rescued mutts and their endless energy are great for revitalizing, recharging and renewing my desire to write in the first place. Just as I’ve made a commitment to be their custodian and take care of and love them despite the innumerable times they’ve peed on the floor or chewed the rug, I’ve made the same commitment to get these stories out of my head and onto the page (or, screen, I guess). And, as I sit here writing this covered in dog hair, it’s not lost on me that my stories and ideas are like those sticky, prickly strands of protein. You can’t just brush them off. You have to pick them one by one, slowly, arduously, until they are gone and you’re clean again. But, of course, you can never quite get them all, and you’ll always have some sticking to you.
So, keep writing , my friends. Keep the dark stormy nights and the he said/she saids and the I am your Fathers going. Keep picking off the dog hairs one by one.