If You Write It…They Will Read…

I admit that I have always been one of those girls who wanted to know why…just explain it to me…make it make sense…and then I’ll happily comply…well…maybe…okay…probably not…but make it make sense anyway…
Growing up…Mama had some rather nebulous rules even though they came with built in explanations…like…wear clean underwear…you might be in a wreck…so the jaws of life operator was gonna check for skid marks in my skivvies before pulling me out of a smoldering car…
Okay…I don’t wear actual skivvies…but it sounded better than panties…just setting the record straight…geez…
There were other rules that made even less sense…like…(sorry Mama)…clean your plate…there are starving children in China…never did understand the logic to that…shouldn’t I be wrapping up the leftovers and mailing them to those kids instead of eating all the Brussels sprouts myself…
I think you get the picture…I like things to make sense…to have a purpose…
So here I am…I’ve blogged all month…and I still don’t know just exactly why I’m doing it…I just keep getting this sense that writing is what I’m supposed to be doing…could be because Bertha keeps pounding me on the head with the keyboard…saying…write…write…write
And while that is motivating…in and of itself…there’s that part of me that wants to know…what’s in it for me…I mean for real…is Oprah finally gonna discover me through my blog…am I going to become rich and famous…what…whatwhat…
Bertha asked me how I feel when I write…and my answer was…I feel good…clever…creative…I feel happy…alive…I love to play with words…I feel delightful…
Bertha smiled…and isn’t that reason enough…and I have to admit…it makes more sense than the underwear or the leftovers…so…I’m writing…
Jane

Off to Play Goth…

Sometime between 1966 and 1969…I first read Edgar Allan Poe…my favorite television series was Dark Shadows…Truman Capote wrote In Cold Blood… the Charles Manson murders took place…Psycho was still a big hit…and I had all the trauma and drama of an adolescent girl…
So is it any wonder that when I made my first efforts at putting my thoughts and feelings on paper that they came out as icy as a gargoyle’s stare?
Thankfully…most of those early musings are long gone…and I don’t even remember them…however…how could I forget the ending to a poem I wrote entitled…Rose Allen…it was a charmer for sure…filled with unrequited love and tragic death…here goes…
And may your life end as mine–with a trickle of blood running down your spine
With an ending like that…who needs a beginning…but I am left with a lot of questions…how was Rose Allen responsible for his death…and why didn’t she love him back…and why does he wish her death from his grave…so many questions will go unanswered…but most of all…who was I…and what was I thinking…
I can’t even remember now which macabre poem inspired it…although…I’m pretty sure there was one…maybe you remember…maybe you…like me…would have been dripping in black…if we’d only thought of it back then…
Yes…I was a bit melodramatic in the day…I suppose I still am…but at least now I know…Mama was right…in 50 years…none of this will matter much…
Mama…really…in 50 years…I’ll be 107…sometimes you’re as funny as Bertha…geez…
Jane