So, I’m Writing a Book…
…no you can’t read it.
Living in Tennessee, people always ask me with feint interest who my favorite football team is as an opening conversation starter and are immediately shocked by me response… To live in Tennessee and not be insanely psychotic about football is an unforgivable sin. Jaws drop, eyes bulge, faces turn red, and leaning against the nearest wall or table is absolutely necessary as they process the four words I awkwardly mumble so as few peoples a possible hear, “I Don’t Watch Football.”
Then come the judgmental stares as I am forced to examine every aspect of my life for that one moment that I consciously chose to abandon all hope for salvation, and became a non football watching heathen. In the awkward silence that ensues, as I am questioning my entire existence, and my fellow conversationalist is recovering from being verbally blindsided by my answer. The response, usually anchored in unforgivable judgement is something along the lines of, “well what sort of hobbies do you have?” Now, feeling as if I am on trial for murdering a small child after stealing it’s candy and telling it Santa doesn’t exist. I look around the room uneasily, avoiding anything that even closely resembles an eye. As I once again mumble, “I’m writing a book.”
The air in the room feels less tense, birds begin singing again, the clouds part revealing the bright and shining sun, smiles return to faces as the possibility of friendship is reintroduced into this painfully awkward situation.
“Oh, what’s it about?” I smile uneasily as my mind is flooded with plots lines, names, and stories, all flying around my mind, crashing into each other and creating more stories, and names, and plot lines. Finally, after rambling incoherently for thirty minutes, any cliff hangers, plot twists, and most certainly the ending of the book are completely ruined, as the story has been raped, murdered, and left to rot in a muddy ditch like a five dollar hooker.
We both smile awkwardly, unable to maintain eye contact. Painfully aware of that fact that any semblance of a relationship has been taken behind the wood shed and beaten severely, we both just walk away in opposite directions, never talking about the interaction ever again.