To be read like Jeff Foxworthy’s – “You Might be a Redneck”
If Wikipedia is higher on your favorites list than your favorite adult website…you might be a writer
If you stare at clouds in search of inspiration far too long…you might be a writer
If you select your doctors because they have Writer’s Digest in the magazine rack…you might be a writer
If you read your Facebook page merely to study human behavior…you might be a writer
If you catch your girlfriend having sex with Cormac McCarthy and all you can think is when’s he gonna finish so I can get his autograph…you might be a writer
If you are sometimes hesitant to even refer to yourself as a writer…you might be a writer
If you have a stack of old scribble filled notebooks taller than the health care bill…you might be a writer
If you ride the bus or subway just so you can study weird characters…you might be a writer
If you almost always know the ending of a movie midway through…you might be a writer
If you think Scrabble should be an Olympic event...you might be a writer
If you have an old thesaurus that looks like it’s been through a John Deere threshing machine…you might be a writer
If you start to get genuine withdrawal DT’s when your laptop is in the shop for more than a day…you might be a writer
If you’d do more to learn a neat new word than you would for a Klondike bar…you might be a writer
If the word rewrite brings you a tinge of panic…you might be a writer
If you’d rather be writing even more than you’d rather be fishing right now…you might be a writer
If you’ve ever searched through the phone book to find the perfect name for a fictional character…you might be a writer
If you’ve put off sex because you needed to finish reading one more chapter of that new novel you just bought…you might be a writer
If you sometimes dream in words instead of pictures...you might be a writer
If you can wallpaper a small cathedral with rejection letters from agents and publishers…you might be a writer
If you’ve ever stalked a literary agent…you might be a writer
If you’ve ever spent an entire vacation in Wi-Fi café…you might be a writer
If a beautiful woman with a short skirt struts by and all you can think about is how you can cleverly describe her legs in poetry or prose…you might be a writer
If you’ve considered divorce when your wife throws out your copy of Writer’s Digest before you finished reading it…you might be a writer
If you’ve ever scribbled a great idea for a plot down on the dashboard of your car while driving on the freeway…you might be a writer
If you consider Starbuck’s coffee to be one of the four main food groups…you might be a writer
If you’d rather be in Barnes and Noble than in Vegas…you might be a writer
If you are genuinely perplexed why network television has yet to come out with a show called American Writer Idol…you might be a writer
If you’ve just stayed at a Holiday Inn Express…you might be a writer
If you’ve ever asked a cop to toss you in jail for a few days because you want that prison scene in your new novel to be perfectly genuine...you might be a writer (but if you’re in jail for incest, poaching or stealing a pack of Chicklets to fill in your missing teeth before that date with your cousin…you might be a red-neck)
If you are on the NSA’s watch list due to all the unusual Google searches you’ve done…you might be a writeer
If you are over thirty and you still live in your parent’s basement…you might be a writer
If you feel that Hallmark should make a sympathy card to send to friends suffering from writers block…you might be a writer
If you take vacations to areas you think would be a great setting for a future novel…you might be a writer
If you’ve ever referred to a west coast sunset as a red-hot ingot meting thru an infinite blue block of Pacific paraffin…you might be a writer
If you can think of at least three more of these without even thinking…you might be a writer
If your written words have ever brought someone joy, tears, rage, or a smile…you might be a writer
If you’ve ever dreamed that you could change the world...you might be a writeer
If you wasted your time reading this entire thread…you might be a writer
or you might just be insane! (which in and of itself would mean…you might be a writer!)
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Running out of time...
I just want to run, like I once did when I was a kid, effortlessly and pain free, fast and easy, like I can still do in my dreams. I want to feel the rush of air against my face, taste it as it flows through moist ducts and beyond swelling alveoli to nourish a racing heart. If I fall, I’ll get right up. Let wounds ooze and weep without worry, for they can be dealt with later. Because right now, I just want to run.
Faster and faster, I want to run, and leave it all in the dust. I want to sprint like Usain Bolt, a bipedal blur, strong and relentless, despite being trapped in a body now withered and bleached and cankered with bedsores. No beckoning cell phones or laptop to slow me, no IV tubes or dressings or wire leads tethering me down to monitors glowing with jaundice news. If only for a moment or even briefly, I want to run away from the responsibility of being ill; outrun the incessant hemorrhage of bills and pills and insurance forms.
I want to push it beyond the limit, because I know that I can. Leave behind the handicap of fatigue and analgesic and the arthritic solder of chronic disease. I want to run away from life, but I want to live. I want to breathe without the worry of a next coming breath. I want to cry without fear, like tears loosed by the joy of seeing family members triumph. Let those tears paint my cheeks without consequence, in simple brushstrokes of saline, like they did as a child. I want to run and run and run along the floor of the sky, unburdened by crippling uncertainty and the never ending question terrorizing my mind - am I going to live or die?
Through whiskered fields or unclean streets, I just want to run - like I once did, like I once could - limbs swinging with the emancipation of youth. Because I know if I could run, nothing else would matter. Because if I could run, I know I could do anything.
-TP
*Note
It’s a unique experience (dare I say blessed) to suffer, and survive, as I did. Several years ago I lay in bed, so sick that lifting my head off the pillow was the physical equivalent of summiting Everest. All the time, helpless and embalmed with uncertainty, hope a distant echo in a mind fettered in surrender, taut faced family members orbiting like satellites in close orbit around a dying sun. I remember feeling for them more so than myself. Beyond the obvious concerns for my family, and the uncertainty of whether tomorrow I would stand atop the earth or lay a flat fathom below, all I could think was…
…I want to run.
Last night I was able to do just that. For the first time in a decade at 11pm est, I was able to run. Then I ran home and scribbled this out.
Faster and faster, I want to run, and leave it all in the dust. I want to sprint like Usain Bolt, a bipedal blur, strong and relentless, despite being trapped in a body now withered and bleached and cankered with bedsores. No beckoning cell phones or laptop to slow me, no IV tubes or dressings or wire leads tethering me down to monitors glowing with jaundice news. If only for a moment or even briefly, I want to run away from the responsibility of being ill; outrun the incessant hemorrhage of bills and pills and insurance forms.
I want to push it beyond the limit, because I know that I can. Leave behind the handicap of fatigue and analgesic and the arthritic solder of chronic disease. I want to run away from life, but I want to live. I want to breathe without the worry of a next coming breath. I want to cry without fear, like tears loosed by the joy of seeing family members triumph. Let those tears paint my cheeks without consequence, in simple brushstrokes of saline, like they did as a child. I want to run and run and run along the floor of the sky, unburdened by crippling uncertainty and the never ending question terrorizing my mind - am I going to live or die?
Through whiskered fields or unclean streets, I just want to run - like I once did, like I once could - limbs swinging with the emancipation of youth. Because I know if I could run, nothing else would matter. Because if I could run, I know I could do anything.
-TP
*Note
It’s a unique experience (dare I say blessed) to suffer, and survive, as I did. Several years ago I lay in bed, so sick that lifting my head off the pillow was the physical equivalent of summiting Everest. All the time, helpless and embalmed with uncertainty, hope a distant echo in a mind fettered in surrender, taut faced family members orbiting like satellites in close orbit around a dying sun. I remember feeling for them more so than myself. Beyond the obvious concerns for my family, and the uncertainty of whether tomorrow I would stand atop the earth or lay a flat fathom below, all I could think was…
…I want to run.
Last night I was able to do just that. For the first time in a decade at 11pm est, I was able to run. Then I ran home and scribbled this out.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Shark week is over....
I'm always saddened when shark week is over. At over twenty years running, The Discovery channel's shark week is the longest running event on cable TV. I don't watch much TV, but definitely try to check in on this special as it speaks to my child-like curiosity and inner scientist alike. Thank you to TDC for another successful year.
And thank you to the crew of the USS Indianapolis for their service in WWII. I am always reminded of the events surrounding the Indianapolis when Discovery Channel runs its annual special, a harrowing historical debacle where sixty-five years ago this past week, many brave Americans were inadvertently part of the first shark week.
880 in the water, only 317 survivors.
One more case of brothers lost to the seemingly insatiable appetite of freedom.
Friday, August 6, 2010
The ins and outs of creative writing:
Be inspirational and devout, but never sell out.
Be outlandish without being insulting.
Be outspoken, never inaccurate.
Use insight to incite.
Be outrageous without being inappropriate.
Be inventive, never outdated.
Intoxicate and invigorate, but never be out of touch.
Avoid the insipid and outmoded.
Above all, be outstandingenious
Although probably incomplete, I'm out -TP
Be outlandish without being insulting.
Be outspoken, never inaccurate.
Use insight to incite.
Be outrageous without being inappropriate.
Be inventive, never outdated.
Intoxicate and invigorate, but never be out of touch.
Avoid the insipid and outmoded.
Above all, be outstandingenious
Although probably incomplete, I'm out -TP
Monday, August 2, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
Massage table musings:
I went for a massage the other day, as I do on occasion. Having dealt with health issues in the past, I discovered their capacity to nourish the immune system, and thus enhance the body’s ability to self-heal. Although now in good health, the habit of going for an occasional massage has continued. They are a wonderful treat. For those of you who’ve had the experience, you know what I am talking about. For those who haven’t, you don’t know what you’re missing.
Not long into the session, I began to slip into a semi-conscious state, as is often the case, drifting somewhere between sleep and synthetic free fall. Neurons hummed in blissful cadence as chakras began toking on the zenergy of air, earth, ether, and even the therapist – who just happened to be an extremely attractive little spirit indeed. Lysandra was her name, I believe.
In my trance-like state, thoughts dislocated and ran uninhibited through fields of dreams. Abstract neural imagery merged with physical ecstasy as my body continued to throttle down and offload stress by diastolic degrees. If ever a case could be made for heaven on earth, it was moments like these that would be convincing evidence for such a case.
Enjoying the rub, as she worked her hands across my back, I was reminded of an article I had read about massage just a few weeks prior. The article theorized that the reason a massage feels so good is, at least in part, due to neural anticipation - the fact that you don’t know exactly where the therapist is going to go next keeps your nerves on their toes, so to speak; and your body alive with the thrill of wonder. An easy way to demonstrate this, according to the article, was to rub on yourself for a moment. Massage your arm or shoulder and see how it feels. You’ll note that, although it feels okay, there’s really no comparison to the high voltage delight of being rubbed by another. This is because you know exactly where you are going with your next move; there’s no anticipation, no drama, no uncertainty, no wonder.
As my mind continued to ponder this notion, Lysandra shifted aft to work my lower body, moving with the free flowing grace of a ballerina. Although she was fairly young, maybe mid-twenties, she was clearly experienced. With the shift in location, my mind did the same, taking the line of thinking and seeing if it could be somehow twisted with writing - which is the ultimate fate of most thoughts that sashay through my brain these days. And in this case, it didn’t take long to make the connection between the joy of massage and the joy of reading. I realized right away that anticipation while reading is indeed a key element, at least from my view, in the level of pleasure derived from plot and prose alike.
By natural course of thought, I then reflected back on some of my favorite books, (Jurassic Park, The Positronic Man, Red Dragon) and sure enough, anticipation was, among other factors, a direct corollary to whether I enjoyed a book or not. The anticipation of not knowing what was coming next kept brain cells delightfully confused and heightened with amorphous anxiety, and often kept me reading late into the night. I found the connection between massage and reading quite cool, especially while prone on the table, and still buzzing from endorphin overload. It’s amazing what the brain will concoct while broadcasting alpha-wave test patterns.
My mind must have chewed on this thread of thought for some time because before I knew it, Lysandra was asking me to turn over so she could work on my front side, and finish up. Shaking free of the zero-G coma I’d slipped into, I complied, completely unaware that there was even a world beyond the small candlelit cubicle surrounding us. As I settled into a comfy position, and Lysandra slipped a pillow under my head, my mind almost immediately picked up on the analogy it had been ruminating on for some time - the comparison between the pleasure derived from massage, and that of reading a great book. Anticipation, uncertainty, surprise were all definitely hallmarks in the excellence of each. Lysandra then began to work her way down my torso, slowly massaging silky circles over my abs. And as her hands ventured lower, I found myself wondering, with the same anticipation I feel when I’m deep within the plot of a really cool novel. I can’t wait to find out if this story will have a happy ending.
TP
Not long into the session, I began to slip into a semi-conscious state, as is often the case, drifting somewhere between sleep and synthetic free fall. Neurons hummed in blissful cadence as chakras began toking on the zenergy of air, earth, ether, and even the therapist – who just happened to be an extremely attractive little spirit indeed. Lysandra was her name, I believe.
In my trance-like state, thoughts dislocated and ran uninhibited through fields of dreams. Abstract neural imagery merged with physical ecstasy as my body continued to throttle down and offload stress by diastolic degrees. If ever a case could be made for heaven on earth, it was moments like these that would be convincing evidence for such a case.
Enjoying the rub, as she worked her hands across my back, I was reminded of an article I had read about massage just a few weeks prior. The article theorized that the reason a massage feels so good is, at least in part, due to neural anticipation - the fact that you don’t know exactly where the therapist is going to go next keeps your nerves on their toes, so to speak; and your body alive with the thrill of wonder. An easy way to demonstrate this, according to the article, was to rub on yourself for a moment. Massage your arm or shoulder and see how it feels. You’ll note that, although it feels okay, there’s really no comparison to the high voltage delight of being rubbed by another. This is because you know exactly where you are going with your next move; there’s no anticipation, no drama, no uncertainty, no wonder.
As my mind continued to ponder this notion, Lysandra shifted aft to work my lower body, moving with the free flowing grace of a ballerina. Although she was fairly young, maybe mid-twenties, she was clearly experienced. With the shift in location, my mind did the same, taking the line of thinking and seeing if it could be somehow twisted with writing - which is the ultimate fate of most thoughts that sashay through my brain these days. And in this case, it didn’t take long to make the connection between the joy of massage and the joy of reading. I realized right away that anticipation while reading is indeed a key element, at least from my view, in the level of pleasure derived from plot and prose alike.
By natural course of thought, I then reflected back on some of my favorite books, (Jurassic Park, The Positronic Man, Red Dragon) and sure enough, anticipation was, among other factors, a direct corollary to whether I enjoyed a book or not. The anticipation of not knowing what was coming next kept brain cells delightfully confused and heightened with amorphous anxiety, and often kept me reading late into the night. I found the connection between massage and reading quite cool, especially while prone on the table, and still buzzing from endorphin overload. It’s amazing what the brain will concoct while broadcasting alpha-wave test patterns.
My mind must have chewed on this thread of thought for some time because before I knew it, Lysandra was asking me to turn over so she could work on my front side, and finish up. Shaking free of the zero-G coma I’d slipped into, I complied, completely unaware that there was even a world beyond the small candlelit cubicle surrounding us. As I settled into a comfy position, and Lysandra slipped a pillow under my head, my mind almost immediately picked up on the analogy it had been ruminating on for some time - the comparison between the pleasure derived from massage, and that of reading a great book. Anticipation, uncertainty, surprise were all definitely hallmarks in the excellence of each. Lysandra then began to work her way down my torso, slowly massaging silky circles over my abs. And as her hands ventured lower, I found myself wondering, with the same anticipation I feel when I’m deep within the plot of a really cool novel. I can’t wait to find out if this story will have a happy ending.
TP
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