Why You May Not Want to Hang Out With a Writer

writer2Sometimes when I’m up late, not feeling creative enough to write and I want to knock myself out so that I can sleep, I site hop around the internet. It seems I always find something worth saving, and last night I came across the following. It started out as a little meme about why you might want to hang out with or date a writer. Then someone else posted it, adding their own two cents why you would not want to do such a thing. I thought it was funny so here it is for you.

WRITERS WILL ROMANCE YOU WITH WORDS.
We probably won’t. We write for ourselves, or for money, and by the time we’re done, we’re sick of it. If we have to write you something, there’s a good chance it’ll take us two days and we’ll be really snippy and grumpy about the process.

WRITERS WILL WRITE ABOUT YOU.
You don’t want this. Trust me.

WRITERS WILL TAKE YOU TO INTERESTING EVENTS.
No. We will not. We are busy writing. Leave us alone about these “interesting events.” I know one person who dates a terrific writer. He goes out alone. She is busy writing.

WRITERS WILL ACKNOWLEDGE YOU AND WILL DEDICATE THINGS TO YOU.
A better way to ensure this would be to become an agent. That way you’d actually make money off of talking people through their neuroses.

WRITERS WILL PRESENT YOU WITH AN INTERESTING PERSPECTIVE OF THINGS.
Yes. Constantly. While you’re trying to watch TV, or take a shower. You will have to listen to observations all day long, in addition to being asked to read the observations we wrote about when you were at work and unavailable for bothering. It will be almost as annoying as dating a stand-up comedian, except if you don’t find these observations scintillating, we will think you’re dumb, instead of uptight.

WRITERS ARE SMART.
The moment you realize this is not true, your relationship with a writer will develop a significant problem.

WRITERS ARE REALLY PASSIONATE.
About writing. Not necessarily about you.

WRITERS CAN THINK THROUGH THEIR FEELINGS.
So don’t start an argument unless you’re ready for a very, very lengthy explication of our position, our feelings about your position, and what scenes from our recent fiction the whole thing is reminding us of.

WRITERS ENJOY THEIR SOLITUDE.
So get lost, will you?

WRITERS WEAR THEIR HEARTS ON THEIR SLEEVES.
Serious advice: if you meet a writer who’s actually demonstrative, be careful.

WRITERS WILL TEACH YOU COOL NEW WORDS.
This is possibly true! We may also expect you to remember them, correct your grammar, and look pained after reading mundane notes you’ve left for us.

WRITERS MAY BE ABLE TO ADJUST THEIR SCHEDULES FOR YOU.
Writers may be able to adjust their schedules for writing. Get in line, then.

WRITERS CAN FIND 1000 WAYS TO SAY WHAT THEY LIKE ABOUT YOU.
By the 108th you’ll be pretty sure we’re just making them up for fun.

WRITERS CAN COMMUNICATE IN A BUNCH OF DIFFERENT WAYS.
But mostly writing. Hope you don’t like talking on the phone—that shit is rough.

WRITERS ARE SURROUNDED BY INTERESTING PEOPLE.
Every last one of whom is imaginary.

WRITERS ARE SEXY.
No argument. Some people think this about heroin addicts, too.

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Fool For a Day!

The FoolThere he goes, the Merrie Fool dressed in his extravagant best, heading out for a new adventure, running not away, but toward. Shunning attachments, he has packed only what he needs and carries a white rose of purity. The sun is shining on him as he strikes out on the great Quest, singing a little tune, tra-la!

His faithful companion tries to warn him that he’s about to step off the edge, but why should he care? Indeed, what edge? Because he harbors no fear, the universe will hold him up and he’ll continue unscathed like a bumble bee who does not know it’s not built to fly.

In modern card decks he is the Joker, the Wild Card, capable of fulfilling anything that is required of him. In the Tarot his number is 0. He exists, yet he does not exist. Like a full, pregnant womb from which life is about to emerge, the Fool represents the soul in its virgin incarnation carrying all the promise and peril, the innocence, and the capacity to live life to its fullest measure.

This is how I look at April Fool’s Day. Not a day of practical jokes and pranks, but a day during which I may walk off the edge of some precipice in my mind (and always one of my own making) to find I am magically upheld and supported. It’s a day when common sense must take a back seat and I must strike out and let my life take me where it will.

Where would you go, what would do, if you had no understanding of failure, if you knew you could succeed at anything you set your heart on?

Don’t look down!
__________

Repost from my old blog.

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A Pleasant Valley Sunday

garage

Today feels like a typical Sunday in Camarillo, California, where my parents lived from 1968 to 1990. It was where Joel grew up for the most part, and was considered the “family seat”.

In the Sixties, we who lived in Camarillo believed (I still do, by the way) that the Monkees’ song, Pleasant Valley Sunday, was written about our little suburb just north of the L.A. Basin. After all, the valley that leads the eight miles from town to the beach is called Pleasant Valley, and the 10-mile thoroughfare from Camarillo to Port Hueneme is Pleasant Valley Road. What would you think if you lived there?

 

The local rock group down the street
Is trying hard to learn their song;
They serenade the weekend squire,
Who just came out to mow his lawn.
Another Pleasant Valley Sunday,
Charcoal burning everywhere;
Rows of houses that are all the same,
And no one seems to care…

Today feels like one of those days. Today, I feel like I should pick up my sunglasses from the bar and say to Lynette, “I’m going over to Dad’s. Be back later!” And I’d go to Mom and Dad’s. The garage door would be open and Dad would be at his work bench in the back, working on some TV that he’s been meaning to get to for several weeks while Glenn Miller plays from his favorite AM station on that old 1940s radio he fixed up. I’d grab a Miller from the garage fridge. “Hi Dad!” and he’d turn and smile and begin wiping his hands on a red handkerchief he carried in the back pocket of his khaki trousers. “Hi Hon!” He’d give me a squeeze, turn down the radio a little, pull out a couple of 4-legged stools and we’d talk about nothing in general. Later, we’d go to Builder’s Emporium together and walk through the aisles looking at drill bits, kitchen cabinet hardware and garage shelving. He’d probably buy me a plant from the garden area as well as some leaf bags and extra batteries for the flashlight he bought me the last time we went there together. In the front yard the sprinklers would be watering the lawn he’d just mown and edged and the droplets of water on Mom’s lavender roses would sparkle in the flower bed beneath the kitchen window. Yeah, that’s what today feels like.

See Mrs. Gray, she’s proud today,
Because her roses are in bloom;
And Mr. Green, he’s so serene,
He’s got a TV in every room.
Another Pleasant Valley Sunday,
Here in status symbol land,
Mothers complain about how hard life is,
And the kids just don’t understand…

My dad’s garage was a like taking a trip down the rabbit hole in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, if Wonderland was located at Lowe’s, Home Depot, or Builders Emporium. We never had to take anything to a shop or garage, because Dad could fix anything. When I’d ask him where something was, he’d splay all of his fingers, pointing with his hands, and say, “Somewhere over there.” It was a mess, but it was an organized mess. He’d made hinged doors with shelves built into them and then filled the shelves with coffee cans he’d painted matte black and labeled, “Nuts”, “Bolts”, “Gator Clips”, “Resistors”, and etc. He had everything out there. Everything but cars, that is. I cannot remember one time when a car could actually fit in his garage. The closest he ever got to that was when he’d pull a car’s nose in just far enough that he could work on the engine out of the sun.

Both of my sons remember Dad’s garage with great fondness, because Dad always took them out there with him: “You wanna come out and help Grandad?” he’d ask. “We need to adjust the headlights on Nanny’s car.” I have pictures of Joel out there in his walker, not quite two, screwdriver in hand, following right behind my dad. So, if you can read this, Dad, or hear it in my heart, I miss you. Especially on Sundays.

Creature comfort goals,
They only numb my soul,
And make it hard for me to see;
My thoughts all seem to stray
To places far away;
I need a change of scenery.
Another Pleasant Valley Sunday,
Charcoal burning everywhere;
Another Pleasant Valley Sunday,
Here in status symbol land…

__________

Edited & reposted from my old blog, Incurable Insomnniac
Pleasant Valley Sunday © Screen Gems-EMI Music, Inc.

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