WORDS

I love words. I like big words, small words, slang, colloquialisms. You name it, I like it. It’s often internally difficult to post my ramblings because they are so inane and unworthy. Not meaning to sound self-deprecating and not looking for a pat on the back or reassurance. Just stating the facts.

I read tons of articles, blogs, my friend’s postings on social media. These Brainiac masters have the ability to switch between poetry, rants, facts, opinions, and humor, seemingly without effort. I have a genius brother, who is hysterically funny, intelligent, and a fantastic writer. He has memory that is so great, it’s hard to believe we are in the same gene pool. I read an email from the guy and immediately feel inadequate…that’s to say, I admire him greatly. All, so intelligent and creative.

My reading tastes vacillate between the classics, thrillers, mysteries, and the cereal box. Most people don’t know that I have written since high school. I wrote my first science fiction thriller at 17. I wrote a really funny (in my opinion) novel about housekeeping before “The Help” came out. It was one piece of work that I actually thought about sending to a publisher. I procrastinated so long someone made a movie that was not close to what I wrote, but the same concept, so the book will never see the light of day. I wrote a comedy/science fiction short story that goes into all the fun things artificial intelligence brings to underwear. So many folks love the concept but I don’t have the nerve to show anyone.

Funny thing about that last writing effort. My brother and I were sitting in a car talking about a writing contest. Just brainstorming about all the writers in the world, the internet opening up the capability to publish at will and without costs, and such. The idea was born. I thought he would write it better, but I kept thinking about story line and taking it further and adding, you know, “things”. Lo and behold, the words just flowed out. The backstory of the creation of this piece, itself, is probably a book of its own. Hmm, have to think about that…

I don’t have the chutzpa to publish any of them. No one has even read them. When I go back and read what I wrote, I am so embarrassed at my lack of prowess in the art. It’s unnerving. Then why do I continue? Because. It’s a silly and self-indulgent need. When I was younger, there was never any serious internal consideration for taking care of this need. Too worried about being humiliated and worrying about what people think. The need and the words just sat inside me, for decades.

Aging is curing me of that notion. It’s very freeing. Said that many times before, I know. It’s true. I no longer give a rat’s patoot about who thinks I am funny, smart, talented. I no longer apologize for being poly-syllabic and loving big, tough words. It’s not cool to be smart, long-winded or prolific anymore. If an article is over a 3-minute read, the stats drop on your dashboard. If you are poly-syllabic, you are labelled a show-off or attention-seeking.

Quite frankly, words are the way we move people, express important concepts and ideas, prove a point. Well, DUH! See? I can mix all kinds of words that don’t match in one paragraph. It’s a gift. Anyone who reads anything I write understands my penchant for stating the obvious.

I set a goal for this piece to be no more than 500 words. It is actually 629 words (per Word’s count). I just cannot help it.