Thursday, June 30, 2016

Confessions of a Blogoholic




I recently came out to all of my family and friends. But, I'm not gay. 

I'm a blogoholic. 

A few years ago, I didn't even know what the word blog meant. 

(blog = short for web log, in case you didn't know either.) 

And now, it has become nothing short of an addiction. 

My family has been very supportive, so long as I don't air any of their dirty laundry. Some friends have been super sweet and encouraging, and other so-called friends seem to sit back silently and judge me from a distance. Haters.


Writing can be a lonely occupation, but I enjoy the solitude. 


You know all those social butterfly-type moms who are always flitting through your facebook news feed at parties with all of their social butterfly-type mom friends? I'm NOT one of THOSE moms. I never feel more alone than I do in a crowded room full of people. Introvert problems.

But, I have always had a love affair with words.


The way they taste in my mouth. The way they sound rolling off my tongue. The intricacies and complexities of their meanings. The way they sometimes slither through my mind and coil themselves up in dark corners.


I'm not saying I'm a great writer. 


I'm not even saying I'm any good. Trust me, I'm keeping my day job. What I AM saying is that I'm writing for me. I write out of necessity. It helps me to "know thyself". Sometimes I'm not even sure how I'm feeling until it becomes words on a page. In a way, I guess I am writing myself into existence. I write, therefore, I am.

But I'm also writing for you. 


Because words are weighty. They hold the power of life and death. I tell stories because stories are what become us. After all, what are we if not the stories that we tell? All of us are driven by words. Our bodies are just the vehicles. 

Words are eternal beings. 

In the beginning was THE WORD. 
THE WORD was with God and THE WORD was God. 
THE WORD became flesh and dwelt among us.

I blame my elementary school teacher with chained glasses on the edge of her nose for this obsession. She red-inked, "You are a great writer!" on my paper in the second grade. 

That image still flashes through my mind like an old-fashioned slide show. 

Or maybe my handsome college professor with starched shirt and beard who published my essay on "The Yellow Wallpaper" and encouraged me to keep writing. 

I think I will.






2 comments:

  1. I find your blogs interesting, entertaining; sometimes profound and sad. I wrote my first poem at 12. I saw a picture in Look magazine of a Celtic graveyard. It was dark, and sad; a little frightening even. Decaying, was the other word I thought of at 12. Decay and a monument to a past long forgotten. I, I was 12 so the world was ahead of me. My mother upon reading the poem, asked if I was depressed or suicidal. I continued to write anyway. My Dad thought it was great. (Read about your Dad in the hospital under "Love What Matters" btw. Great!) I continued to write poetry largely over the years, chronicling events in my life; oftentimes sad ones or happiness followed by the "shoe dropping". Someone once asked why did I write poetry, oftentimes sad poetry. I said that to me, poetry was like taking a picture, a snapshot of a moment in time. It would never be that exact same thing...feeling again. I hoped that people could relate to it emotionally in some way, but for me it was a cathartic to take "the snapshot" and turn it around. Try to understand the hurt and perhaps in understanding it, heal it. I am 60 now and it's kind of the final act. :) Yes it could last another 30 years, but there are some events that I perhaps will not experience again, and certainly not in the same way. But what I do experience, I hope to continue to write about it in poems. Life has been bitter sweet, but I never forget that I have had the benefit of both. For some life is simply tragedy and little else; short lived for some at that. If one is lucky for the short duration, they are well loved and remembered. Back to the first poem. The last line was, "Oh death don't wait for me to come, for I have yet many songs unsung and many years and miles to go before this body to the land you sow..." Yes, 12 and you really don't want to think about death at that age, right? Because you're bulletproof. Well, sadly not always. Be well. Keep writing. You write well...really. :)Bdevine921@aol.com

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  2. Thank you for reading and commenting, Bdevine921! I love the last line of your poem. Sounds like even at 12 you knew the power of words.

    “I am, by calling, a dealer in words; and words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.” ~Rudyard Kipling

    “Words can be like X-rays if you use them properly -- they’ll go through anything. You read and you’re pierced.” ~Aldous Huxley

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