Writing and Reading

I first must say something: I struck a major artery with my last post.

I’ve so far seen more hits about the upcoming book tour in Michigan than in one round of boxing, Roy Jones Jr. versus ‘man who won’t remember his own name’. Did I mention I love to watch boxing? I digress….

Needless to say, I’m practically stunned. Overwhelmed. Okay, fine, I’ll say it! I FEEL LOVED! Yes, it’s a wonderful thing. And believe me when I say I’m very, very, very, very, very, very, very much looking forward to this coming Friday when I’ll be in the store I work part-time in to meet such authors as Allison Brennan, Roxanne St. Clair, Gena Showalter, and most notably Jordan dane.

Specifically Jordan. And there’s a reason why. Here is the reason:

I came home tonight from working at Meijer (and, boy, my feet hurt!) to find another comment from Jordan and also a friend request on Facebook from her. Needless to say, I felt like one of those nobodies that found himself standing on the red carpet with a bunch of celebrities; and then this one particular celebrity said ‘hi’ to me, shook my hand and then had the paparazzi take a picture of her and me. Yes, Jordan, that’s what you are: A C-E-L-E-B-R-I-T-Y.

I was stunned. Flabbergasted. Glabberfasted. I had to pinch myself. Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I’m a nobody. No, no, no. I’m definitely somebody. I’m just saying Mrs. Jordan Dane, God bless her, is more of a ’somebody’ than I am! And she definitely floored me when she inquired in her latest comment on my little blog as to the reason why I write.

Why do I write?

And then it hit me: that’s something I haven’t discussed as of yet. Don’t you just love it when normal day-to-day life brings about your next blog topic? That’s the best, man!

Anyway, that’s a complex question; but I’ll answer it as best I can. Pay attention, Jordan. This one’s for you. Okay, it’s for everyone else, too; but it is first mainly for you since you actually asked. Not that anyone else doesn’t care; I’m sure they all do, I’m sure all my friends do. But you actually verbally used your mouth to speak the words that formed the question to suggest to me my next blog topic (long-winded, am I? Yes.)

Why do I write…. There are several reasons.

I’ll start with the first. I guess…ever since I was young, writing tended to be that ‘outlet’. That way to release something. It became therapy, almost. Especially now. The blank white space on that word processor was my own private psychiatrist or counselor. This was mainly with poetry. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen: I was a poet first before a book writer. The constant turns, the drops, the risings, everything–all that life threw at me, at all of us–writing poetry became that way to keep my eyes focused on one thing and not get dizzy or sick with all kinds of sorrow or anger or hate or fear or even love and happiness. I remember not one day passed when I didn’t feel the urge to write something, even just three lines. A concrete image, a haiku, free verse. I also wrote sonnets and sestinas, too. With ease, I might add. It didn’t take me long to realize that I had the eyesight for those mystic nuances–subtle rhythms in language, rhyme, connection of words to imagery and/or emotion. I seemed to see them without any kind of effort. It never took me long to analyze someone else’s work. English classes were a breeze for me.

Anyway, that was the first reason. It came natural to me in the sense that my mind, my heart, even my soul ached to release anything on paper.

The second reason simply was that I later found out how much I love stories. I love books. I’ll be honest: I have a confession to make; in high school, so many books interested me, and I have no shame in admitting that I even bought one particular paperback back in the day called VAMPIRE$(Yes, with the dollar sign for the ‘S’) written by John Steakley. It wasn’t a bad book, though. I’m not saying it was bad at all. It was actually quite gritty, good, a MAN’S book. Yeah. And, of course, at the tender age of 16 (I think that’s how old I was), I was a MAN. I gave new meaning to the term Young Adult in the literary industry. I had never seen that many f-you’s and hard-ons and bouncing boobies and phallic interpretations and ripped out spinal cords and blood showers written on paper before. It was fun! (And what was even cooler was seeing, in the year of ‘98, the movie adaptation come out, you know, the one with James Woods, “John Carpenter’s: Vampires”).

I naturally had that urge to tell a story. I wanted to tell my own stories. Badly. My first ‘novel’, I wrote in 7th grade. It was twenty pages long. I wrote my second novel as a freshman in high school. It was around 210 pages long. I wrote, yet, another one about eight years ago (I’m 30 years old, by the way), and that one was a whopping 540 pages (about 154,000 words for all you literary moguls out there). I couldn’t help it. I liked stories. I wrote short stories, too; but that hardly satisfied me as much as writing something grand. Something epic. I longed for it every day.

My third reason is probably the most important one. At least for me. There is no more of an awesome high than when someone reads your work. Can I get an amen? I learned that a long time ago. Part of the reason for that is, no matter what, the life experiences I go through on a day-to-day basis pretty much automatically injects itself into my writing. My characters resemble bits of me all the time. What they go through resembles what I’ve gone through, either metaphorically or literally. And when someone reads my work…they’re reading me. And for me, that’s a profound experience. It’s like sending a message to the world, but it’s a message that can be understood by anyone regardless of language. That in itself is profound, too.  To have a message you know can be embraced by literally anyone. And everyone. The thought of it almost brings tears to my eyes, actually. Even when they have ‘critiques’ of the work, too. Because if there was ever anything I learned in creative writing class, it was that a critique was not a criticism. Meaning the reader likes the work even though there are flaws in it. They actually like the work. They actually like me (great, now I sound like Sally Fields at the Oscar’s).

I’ve said this before: my joy, my dream, without a doubt, is to be read. To have a career in writing, to be a published author, bestseller or not–who cares–is a wonderful goal to have, one I can really reach for. But it’s not my dream. I’ve already accomplished my dream. I’ve written a book. And someone out there…wanted to read it. I couldn’t be happier.

So there, Jordan (and all of the rest of you awesome people), that’s my answer for you. Yes, it’s long. But here at the Wretched Writer’s blog, you’re reading my rantings. I rant. Thanks for commenting…. .

As an added bonus, here’s a little video that I’ve just been begging to put on the blog, just because. It’s retarded. There’s always room for a little bit of retardedness….