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| In The Old(e) Days |
Way back when, I was in my twenties. I had a small group of friends and a girlfriend. We would go to restaurants or diners on a regular basis.
If any of these restaurants had paper napkins the server was in mortal danger of having a magnum opus deposited on the table. Paper napkins were my medium. I could fire off a "very short" short story in short order. I would make humorous doodles. Punk slogans would adorn the edges. I also wore white t-shirts that I decorated using red, black, and green fabric markers so that made me recognizable. Recognizable enough that if I were out somewhere it was possible that someone would ask me if I was, "that guy that writes on napkins."
Reading bio's about different authors bothers me and actually makes me question what I do. The truth is, I haven't done anything. I've never lived through a war that came to my shores. I've never been a journalist working at a newspaper. I've never had a string of menial jobs that brought about the opportunity to meet many interesting characters. I've never been in any real danger, unless you count working in New York City for a few years. I didn't grow up in difficulty, nor have I had a drug or alcohol abuse problem. If my life were a loaf of bread it would not be seven grain, whole wheat or pumpernickle; it would be Wonder Bread. Possibly with some mayonaise thrown on.
So, while I've read a fair quantity of books in my time, I'm not at all sure I'm qualified to write anything. I've got my head (such as it is), I've got some imagination, but is that really enough?
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Posted by waustin on 2009-11-06 11:47:40 | Rating: | Views: 22
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