Just over a week ago I threw up a post on ye olde bloggy blog that wound up getting 188 views. That is the highest hitting post of mine on this blog to date.
Don't you hate that? That feeling like you have to write and then when the time comes to actually put pen to paper, the words flee. I hate that.
But I keep writing. Because those words. The words that flew away may never return. They may light on the tip of another writer's tongue. And that's OK. They will make their way in to this world one way or another.
I had to get an eye exam today. Aside from being required to for my whole diabetes thing, I am overdue for an update to my current prescription. And the eye exam confirmed that. Then I got the dreaded question, "Do you have problems when you're reading?" I tried to look confused. It worked. "What I mean is, do you ever take off your glasses to read." I nodded before I could even stop myself.
That started a whole new stream of "This is 1. This is 2. Which is better? 1 or 2? One? Or Two?" Only this time it was for reading. Adding a reader element to my lens prescription.
Which, I later found out, is actually all bifocals are. Regular glasses with reading glasses built in. Shit. I was sweating that for nothing. Combo glasses that mean I don't have to carry a pair of reading glasses around with me everywhere and switch them out when I'm reading them? Hell yeah. Count me in.
I settled on some no-line, progressive glasses with frames made by Realtree(tm). Which, I suppose, means if I lose them in the woods, I'm hosed. The vision insurance footed half the bill so, all was well.
I posted a couple of pix about the whole bifocals thing. Playing up the whole 'getting old' thing more than I really feel. Here's the thing--every day, everyone that is living is getting older. You're six years old? Guess what? You're getting older. You're ninety-three? Guess what? You're getting older.
My dad has a question that he often asks. He may have read it in a book or saw it in a PBS special. But I choose to exercise my right as a son to attribute this squarely to my Pops. He asks, "How old would you be (feel?) if you didn't know how old you were?"
It's a brilliant question. Forget the turning pages of your Franklin-Covey Day Timer. Forget the date on your driver's license.
For me, it's twenty-eight. It's been holding at that age for quite some time. I hadn't yet hit the oh-shit moments of my thirties. I was three years past my open heart surgery and I had a finger on the pulse of the universe. It all clicked with me. Unfortunately, dreaming without action is worse that dreaming, it's stagnation. So at twenty-eight, I knew what I needed to do. At 44, I'm doing it. And that's OK. The years in between better shaped who I am. The Todd that was the writer at Age 28 had almost no support system. I wouldn't have gone to a writing group meeting if you paid me. I had a MASSIVE case of Poseritis then. Sometimes it flares up, but it's pretty easy to squanch these days. When writers, peers, friends, people that I respect for the works they've written tell me that they want to read my work and what to know what happens next--the poseritis goes away quite quickly.
Oh...I almost forgot...speaking of the 'raw, under the hood' post that garnered 188 page hits (here, if you missed it). There is a follow up. I went back up the next week. News of my poor (to say the least) customer service experience had reached the desk of the GM of the dealership. And as soon as I got there, he assured me that he would do everything to make the situation right. I was grateful at that moment that I hadn't gone total batshit crazy the week before.
Turns out the reverse camera malfunctioned at pretty much the exact time they did the update. I guess there are sometimes coincidences. They're going to order the replacement and get it all taken care of.
I was again struck with the thought of, what if I had given in to the rage? I mean seriously. I know it was over nothing. I know that in the grand scheme of things it was pitifully small. And I know the full rage reaction wasn't sparked just by the pissy customer service. There were other factors involved. I don't really think I need to make those other factors public domain just yet, but suffice to say--shit was building.
It's a good thought exercise. As a writer. To take a situation - as it's happening, or just after - turn it in to a thought experiment. A character analysis. If I were writing a character in this exact scenario (or one that elicited the same reaction), what would that person do? What would be their next step.
That is where I'm glad the writer's brain saves me jail time.
Alright. That blue plate special at the MCL is starting to talk back to me. Time to watch some Matlock and call it a night.
Have a great evening my friends.
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