Updated: Aug 25, 2019
Happening upon a discovery of the ways in which my writing has morphed over the millennia of my life, four phases stand out in my mind: the high school papers stage [too cowed to run away], the college student stage [too much false hope to run away], the “no is one making me write” stage [so much desperate hope keeping me in], and the “now” stage [hope gone. resignation set in]. The “now” stage is a piece of work. grumble mumble. I’m hoping my final stage is historical and ringed with golden legacy.
In the “high school” years, my father decides to prepare us for the manner college professors grade papers and thus prepare us to work hard now. He gives me and my brother a research topic and we turn them in to him. I don’t remember the topic, but considering my father’s personality, a possible topic is Modern Technological Techniques and Their Impacts Upon Current Psychological Trends. Just maybe. We are pretty pleased with the quality of our papers. He bleeds allll over our hard work with corrections in red pen. Forthwith, we know college is not within our futures. How could could it be? We are such imbeciles. But rather than allow us to live at mediocrity in full acceptance, he makes us correct our work and turn it back in. Another round of blood, thank you. Turns out he is right, though. We attack following papers with vigor and lots and lots of words. Lots of words. I mean….so, so many words.
Surprise, we both make it to college and papers are a breeze. Wordsmith I be. At this stage in life, I have nothing going on. I read books and regurgitate the words. I work my entry-level job at the pittance reserved for entry-level and never receive a promotion or raise. Therefore, I read books and regurgitate the words right into my college papers. I do well. I argue well. I always have strong, clear theses. I make B’s when I prepare too much…so that stops. Now, I only write papers the day before they are due. I am soulless. Until unpleasantness in life comes. Therefore, in emotional desperation I become funny.
After I earn my two-year degree, I begin blogging. I actually understand how it feels to craft words for the sheer pleasure of it. I abhor seriousness and I can’t bear to read something that has no obvious point and seems only to be emotional ranting (which is why I prefer to read mysteries), so I write to be funny. Then I move on to my second degree from a university and life loses all colour. I am no longer funny. I am full of the blackness of the underworld.
Where am I now? I am on the other side of life. I am on the side of life where I am desperate to laugh at everything and to cry in despair over everything. Oh, the humanity! Oh, the despair of being! Oh, for Pete’s sake you guys! Are you kidding? I’m done with you all. Is this actually really happening? Is this real life? That’s where I am. And ironically, with my life more full of more things and responsibilities, I’m ready to write again. What does that mean?
Escape? It’s time?
As for my tone. I’m not funny. I’m not serious. I’m deadly and bluntly honest…which is often the funniest thing to people I speak to. How does that happen? I’m asked a question, I answer it and am met with delighted laughter, jabs by the elbow to their neighbor, iPhone notes written to remember by. Repeatedly. I side-eye the rest of the world and wonder what joke I’m part of. I’m honestly confused. How can I be funny if I’m not trying to be funny. I’m gratified yes…but still.
The fact that I am not holding my laptop on my bony knees within an open casket, 6 feet under with a burial crew standing by with full shovels as I write my remaining words tells me I am not at the end of my write metamorphoses. I can’t say whether I am a better writer than I used to be, or whether I am just a different writer. Come the day I actually am writing my last words, I’ll have my assistant do a quick read through of the previous decades of life so I know I finished well.
Did it take you 4 minutes to read this? Good. I also hate to drag on.