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A Writer's Reflections
Written on 2001-12-04, at 12:19 a.m.
dizboy's disturbing daily diet...

1/2 Bag Popcorn

1 Bacon Frisco Burger

1/2 Pint Ben & Jerry's Apple Struedel (As I couldn't find any Festivus)


John Live*

Why, at 12:20AM am I wearing a hat, but no shirt?

Listen, I don't judge you.

Oh, and my bracelet fell out of a freak worm hole which had opened to the year 1983.

*Not at all live


I've been called many things, most all of which I could agree with, some good, some bad.

But when I'm called a writer...that's when I don't know what to think.

What is a writer? Am I one? I feel that perhaps I should retrace my steps to figure that out.

I suppose it all started when I was in grade shcool. For it was there that the teacher first put a writing utensil into my hand and said, "Today we learn our ABC's."

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ...Twenty-six characters which would become the basis for all I was expected to learn in life.

Now, if that isn't enough to scare the pants off any first grader, they quickly thereafter tell me that these individually sculpted letters must be assembled to make "words".

Alright.

So, I'm getting this whole word thing down fairly easily. Rat, Cat, Bat, Dog, all the three letter classics. Apparently though, all good things must come to an end. My words were soon taken captive, enslaved in the stifling tomb which is "the sentence". On one end, a towering, epic sized letter, towering above all others, and on the other, a punctuation mark. A period, like a tiny little land mine, daring any letter to cross it.

It is now third grade.

The idea of a sentence has finally set in, there's no going back now. But, alas, a new foe rears its's ugly head.

A paragraph? No...that's simply going too far. Put many sentences together, and there you have it.

Buckling under the pressure, I carefully craft one, something about either my family, or how I spent my summer vacation, and walk away happy for the better person I now must be.

The years trickled by, paragraphs became short stories, short stories became essays, essays became reports, and reports gave way to the bane of my existence...

Research papers.

The time, high school.

The class, freshman honors english.

The assignment, a research paper.

The outcome, a "B-".

Though in hindsight, I did survive that first ordeal with little more than a bruised ego, and dark circles under my eyes from a rushed night of writing after having months to finish.

However, the scars were to be around longer than the Queen Mother.

The words "parenthetical citations" became scarier to me than "Look what I found under your bed." And so began the long stint of aimless research and writing on things which I cared nothing about, a trend which, though enhanced by the mystique of college, continues to this day.

The charm of this site is that I had never before really kept a diary, or journal, seeing things like that as frivolous and adolescent.

Or perhaps it was reading the diaries of stodgy Victorian writers which made me feel that journaling was a complete waste of time. I mean, Samual Pepys may have been a great guy, but anyone with enough time to compose his entire life's work into a secret code has far too much time on his hands.

A writer? I never saw myself as one. To me, writers were stigmatized as washed-up beatniks in coffee houses reciting heroin induced poetry.

But now, who knows? Not I.

Perhaps I'll write more for myself in the future, though I know I'll have my share of needless wordplay between now and the time that I'm pushing up daisies. Until that time though, I think I'll just stick to simplicity...

"ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ...Next time won't you sing with me?"

Be well...

-JOHN-

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Your Host and Emcee...dizboy.

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