What to Write About
Why, when I'm out on a run or taking a shower do I think I have a million awesome things to write about. I mean, a million. And then I sit here with....nothing. (This was started last April 2017)
Like watching Damages Season 5 and having an a-ha moment when Ellen is talking to her dead husband, David (dead but so real!) and David points out that for him it wasn't about the success, it was about the happiness. And I think, yeah, man, happiness! Like the urge I sometimes get to move to the base of a mountain, ski for the season, then figure out my next career move. It's not that I'm trying to avoid hard work - or am I? - but life and knees and increasingly, snow, are in short supply and there's just no replacement for pursuing happiness. So then I remember I want to write something about the different pursuits of happiness!
(And started again January 2018!)
Then I remember I had the idea to package the story of all my great-to-middling love affairs into a musical touching on all my musical highs/lows and the men who influenced them:
Like watching Damages Season 5 and having an a-ha moment when Ellen is talking to her dead husband, David (dead but so real!) and David points out that for him it wasn't about the success, it was about the happiness. And I think, yeah, man, happiness! Like the urge I sometimes get to move to the base of a mountain, ski for the season, then figure out my next career move. It's not that I'm trying to avoid hard work - or am I? - but life and knees and increasingly, snow, are in short supply and there's just no replacement for pursuing happiness. So then I remember I want to write something about the different pursuits of happiness!
(And started again January 2018!)
Then I remember I had the idea to package the story of all my great-to-middling love affairs into a musical touching on all my musical highs/lows and the men who influenced them:
Led Zeppelin (I love him!)
Joan Jett
Psychedelic Furs, T. Rex (What's a Jeepster?)
The English Beat, Oingo Boingo
Joe Satriani, STP and Pearl Jam
The Grateful Dead (Do they always have to play Drums/Space?)
But never Radiohead. I just couldn't figure out Radiohead. So many moments in my musical arc of education came with a boy attached, leading me to buy vinyl then tapes then CDs; create mix tapes of my favorite songs; buy drum sticks and a pad; start cataloging all my live Dead shows and drop acid during a snowstorm trying to feel the music of Yngwie Malmsteen. Music and men - the intricate link between the two that shaped my audio history.
Of course today I thought about a column titled "So This Happened...." about the whimsical daily life of an organization. Like finding out you've been re-orged when your new VP asks for a head shot and then tells you you need to work on how people perceive you. Or finding out you no longer have a job when you see the new seating chart and you're not on it. Or when someone says "to your point" in a meeting and then basically repeats what you just said in another way and people say "good point". Or when you suggest that something proposed might not actually work as intended and you're labeled negative. And of course, that thing implodes on itself later on. Sort of like "Wait, wait don't tell me" but a more snarky version.
Then I find a note written in a half-state of sleep about moments with my mom. Something to write about! When she chased me around the house with a hairbrush - through my 30's and 40's - screaming that I had to brush my hair. When she wanted to wax my legs the first time and said i'd hardly feel a thing. When she booked a hair appointment for me at Bumble & Bumble before it was a household brand and they did the hair for the cover of a Seventeen magazine and I wanted to look like Phoebe Cates. When she sent me a battery-powered pen at work and my co-workers thought it was a vibrator. When she gave me home perms on the kitchen counter. When she bought us vinyl jogging suits to burn more fat. When she dragged me around Paris in Keds (that she packed) that made my feet bleed telling me I'd be grateful I saw Napolean's Tomb one day. When she told me she'd help pay for a nose job when I complained about my nose in high school which was entirely the wrong answer because I just wanted reassurance that my nose was gorgeous.
Now my mind is racing and I think of all the things I could share about sex and life and food and obsessions and dating and adventures and money and success and arthritis and Crossfit and grey hair and friendships and family. But now I'm tired and I need to be outside before the sun sets. I guess the moral of the story here, as I write it to myself, is to just start writing and things will come. Stay tuned faithful readers!
Of course today I thought about a column titled "So This Happened...." about the whimsical daily life of an organization. Like finding out you've been re-orged when your new VP asks for a head shot and then tells you you need to work on how people perceive you. Or finding out you no longer have a job when you see the new seating chart and you're not on it. Or when someone says "to your point" in a meeting and then basically repeats what you just said in another way and people say "good point". Or when you suggest that something proposed might not actually work as intended and you're labeled negative. And of course, that thing implodes on itself later on. Sort of like "Wait, wait don't tell me" but a more snarky version.
Then I find a note written in a half-state of sleep about moments with my mom. Something to write about! When she chased me around the house with a hairbrush - through my 30's and 40's - screaming that I had to brush my hair. When she wanted to wax my legs the first time and said i'd hardly feel a thing. When she booked a hair appointment for me at Bumble & Bumble before it was a household brand and they did the hair for the cover of a Seventeen magazine and I wanted to look like Phoebe Cates. When she sent me a battery-powered pen at work and my co-workers thought it was a vibrator. When she gave me home perms on the kitchen counter. When she bought us vinyl jogging suits to burn more fat. When she dragged me around Paris in Keds (that she packed) that made my feet bleed telling me I'd be grateful I saw Napolean's Tomb one day. When she told me she'd help pay for a nose job when I complained about my nose in high school which was entirely the wrong answer because I just wanted reassurance that my nose was gorgeous.
Now my mind is racing and I think of all the things I could share about sex and life and food and obsessions and dating and adventures and money and success and arthritis and Crossfit and grey hair and friendships and family. But now I'm tired and I need to be outside before the sun sets. I guess the moral of the story here, as I write it to myself, is to just start writing and things will come. Stay tuned faithful readers!
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