Writing Personal Essays
Well, that is what blogging is all about, no?
I’ve actually had this book, Writing Personal Essays: How to Shape Your Life Experiences for the Page, sitting on my shelf for more than a year and am just finally getting around to reading it. I’ve been reading so many insightful, thought-provoking, gut-wrenching, velvety, and just really well written blogs, not to mention the ones that sound and feel so familiar, that I’ve been inspired to improve my own writing, especially on this blog. Well, perhaps “shamed” is a better description.
A friend of mine recently asked, essentially, “Dude, what’s up with the Mr. Sensitive posts?” Frankly, I have no idea. Blame it on the rain. Blame it on the holidays. Blame it on my birthday which is circling like a giant, black vulture. I don’t know, maybe it’s just that I held back so much for so long because of who I was with or life circumstances or whatever that it got all backed up and now it’s pouring out because there’s no where else for it to go. Maybe it’s the repressed exhibitionist in me sneaking out. Hell, it might even be that my friend who’s a month or two out of a year long engagement has a date but I can only seem to meet interesting girls on the Internet, but I’m always “nice guy” material, not “wow, he’s hot” material, and never will be. Ick, that sounds so bad when I put it in black and white.
This all comes back to that old question, “Why do you blog?”
Honestly? What’s behind the thoughtful posts lately? You really want to know? What else? Girls. Why else have I done anything in my life, worthwhile or not. It’s always in relation to those marvelous, mysterious, fascinating and infuriating members of the fairer sex. Which is a misnomer, really, since I’ve never known a one of them to play fair. Always batting their eyes and making my hands all sweaty or my heart skip a beat. Sadly, the thing I miss in this particular medium is hearing their voices and seeing the expressions on their face. I can watch a woman’s lips move and not even hear what she’s saying after a bit. All that matters is seeing the magic of those delicate lips and teeth and tounge move in harmony. And, while some guys might be “leg men” or whatever, for me, it was always the eyes. And, the ears, freakishly. Something about a delicate, pink, shell-like ear that always makes me want to tell stories. And, there’s the change. I have a more feminine audience and, suddenly, I find myself wanting to explain, to justify, to persuade. All those things and more.
But, of course, the classic melancholy of a writer kicks in and I’m sure that none of them are really reading this or would really listen to me in person. Who would want to listen to my foolishness? I tell myself. With all the truth and honesty in those blogs I linked to up above, who would want to spend their time sifting through my verbosity to find the tiniest grain of truth that even I forgot was there?
In the end, that’s all I want. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Someone to listen to me. Someone to hear.
I saw a movie with Jennifer Connelly in it this weekend. She was laying on some lucky actor’s chest, playing with his sweater and looking all wistful while he was saying something. Her pale green eyes were all but translucent as she said her line. Of course, I was so busy watching her mouth move that I have no idea what she was saying. It hurt so bad that I had to get up and leave the room. How could I have misjudged my ex-wife and my life so badly that I actually married someone who didn’t understand that was all I wanted? Even after I told her? And, now, there are days that I feel like that will never happen. I think, sometimes, that’s the way it should be. That I’m just meant to be alone. Worse, I’m getting used to the idea.
And, now that this little essay has gotten a little too personal, so I’m going to go have a drink. A strong drink
Advice from your Uncle Jim:
"Nobody has ever expected me to be President."
--Abraham Lincoln
