This blog is a test. A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away I was a writer. Sure, we all were. Who didn't pen the occasional torrid poem to an unrequited love, the bitter ode to a parent, or doodle the words to a song on the back of a notebook? Words have power and back in the day, I used to try to harness that power for both good and evil. Then I went to grad school and realized that anyone claiming to be a “writer” was usually toiling in the back office of any number of publications, none of which were actually paying them for writing. I will admit to having grand dreams of penning the next Great American Novel, or even more importantly, the next New York Times bestseller. Then I grew up, got out in the world a bit, and realized the most creative writing I was attempting was on my résumé.
Many years passed and I found myself a bit adrift. At sea. Occasionally bored out of my mind. I started thinking about writing, but what? To whom? For what purpose? But then I realized that isn’t actually the point. I like to write because words get jumbled in my head and I can’t think straight until I shake them loose and sort them out on paper. I write better than I speak, and if that isn’t frightening, then I don’t know what is.
So, I’ll write. And maybe you will read it. And maybe you will chuckle, or nod in agreement, or shake your head, or roll your eyes. If you like it, maybe you will pass it on. That’s cool with me. The Internet is filled with millions of monkeys all pecking away trying to create Shakespeare. I’m just hoping for the occasional banana.