Keep it Real

Today I had an experience that was so mindblowingly irritating that just thinking about it sends shockwaves of frustration through my wildly pregnant body. I would tell you about it, but that would mean telling you who it was, and I just can't find it in myself to do that. You see, I am painfully afraid of hurting someone's feelings.

Don't worry. It wasn't you. Ten-thousand bucks says it wasn't anyone you've ever even met or heard of before and I shouldn't be so afraid to reveal little things about people if it means telling a good story, but I am. And I think that is what stands in the way of my being an effective writer. Sure, the stuff I say might get a little guffaw here and there - but when it is a whole lot of I's and not a whole lot of why's my stories might delve into the tedious.

What good is exposition if it doesn't really expose anything? Sure, I can make things up here and there that might parallel reality, but the effect tends to be lackluster compared to the rawness of the truth. If you don't get to know me any better after investing the time to read my posts, you have wasted your time. If I said something like, "I tend to have a humorous outlook on life because growing up, my dad used to spray paint political messages on the side of his truck and drive us around town" you would tune me out - because that couldn't have really happened, could it?

So I sit at a crossroads between keeping-it-real and becoming a fiction writer. The latter of which I have absolutely no interest in. I come here seeking reflection and revelation. And just to be clear: no spray paint has ever touched the side of my dad's truck. And that, my dears, is the truth.