When people find out that I’m a writer, usually the first question out of their mouths are “Have you had anything published?”
To which I always answer “Yes!”
See, being published is kind of a subjective topic. Because one person’s being published is another person’s bathroom wall graffiti. So, that being my way of thinking, I can honestly say that I’ve been a published writer for the past 40 years. And given the current state of technology, applications like Twitter and Facebook are the new bathroom walls of America.
Back in the day, the only reason we all went to the bathroom in restaurants, gas stations, schools, and hospitals was so that we could read what some creative genius wrote on the wall. We didn’t have cell phones and smartphones with which to text, tweet or post with while we are performing the most basic of human functions. We took our entertainment from words printed by a felt tip pen on a wall that you wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole by a person we wouldn’t let in our living room much less near our children. Yet, we craved the words. We craved the laughter.
And yet my first piece of “Published Work” was a bathroom wall in Jr. High school. Yes, I had to keep my identity as secret as the location to the Batcave, but it was worth it. Just to hear people laugh at what I wrote became extremely intoxicating to me. I loved making people laugh and I still do to this day. So you can imagine that my evolution from Bathroom Wall Philosopher to Social Media/Observational Comedic/Wordsmith had only gotten worse with the advent of technology.
The more I write, the more I feel that while I do enjoy writing the pithy little comments that Twitter and Facebook allow me to get away with, I feel that my talents need to branch out into longer and more “relevant” topics for more people to read and enjoy.
My world is not normal. It really isn’t normal. And I like it that way.
I don’t like the normalcy that most people crave in their lives. I don’t like having to live on a set schedule per se because as I have found out, life isn’t on a set schedule. Life moves on despite what a clock or calendar says what time it is. If I want to stay up till three in the morning writing about the last loser, with Viking horns tattooed on his semi shaved skull, who was so brain damaged to actually have the nerve to come to my door and say “Bro, is your daughter home?” then I will do so. (Needless to say, they will never find his body).
I am a writer. This is what I do. I spill my thoughts, guts, feelings and whatever other emotional and intellectual baggage onto this laptop, lined pad or journal. Basically, I’m a guy who can’t shut up, but instead of doing it out loud, I write it down. Because if it wasn’t for guys like me, whose sole function is to entertain you and get you to think outside of the box, you would be sitting in a filthy bathroom stall at a gas station reading a blank wall.