On Knowing That You Never Know

If the politics and terrorism and whatever weren’t enough to make you nauseous, just read the paper.  For example, a woman in the Midwest fell into a giant meat grinder at the plant she worked at, and was ground to death.  Pretty gruesome, right?

The story was right above “The Best Breakfast Burritos in Every State.”

(Note to self: Consider giving up reading the news.)

So, where was I?  Let me think.  While I figure this out, here’s a bunny.

bunny
No pics relevant to this blog.  Just some nature.  Cute bunny.

The last few weeks haven’t brought many inspirations.  You know, I keep trying to think but nothing happens?

The subject of “blogging” seems to be a big thing for many bloggers, and it seems that a lot of other bloggers like to read about blogging.  It seems that some bloggers know more about it, and they also know how to get people to read it, so they coach other bloggers on how to be successful bloggers and get more people to read all this stuff.  Which is fine, if you think about it, because if a writer spends time writing something, puts thought into it, tries to make a point, he or she wants to share it with others.  Which is why we end up with bloggers writing blogs for bloggers and bloggers reading other bloggers blogs and so on.

I don’t really think about myself as a “blogger” even though I do this every week and have done so since October sometime.  My novel was being self-published and people say if you’re an author, you need a blog.  Of course, that goes back to the same problem that the other bloggers seem to be onto, and that’s how to get someone to read this.

blooms1
Blossoms springing out all over.

You are reading this, so you are either a friend, family member, or someone I begged to read it.  Or, you’re another blogger.  You might like what I write, or “like” it, but you really want me to read yours too.  And like it.  And I often do.  And that’s fine. That’s probably what the expert bloggers say you should do, and it makes sense.

But I don’t see this as “blogging.” It’s like a weekly journal, especially on a day like this where nothing specific is prodding me on to literary glory, or something like that.  It’s the afternoon and time is running out.  Last week, a hawk dove on a koi and took it out of the pond and I saved the fish.  Of course, I probably should have just let nature take its course.  It was a reaction.  But it was also something to write about.

Today, it’s just sitting and looking at the page and typing.  Whatever comes out is fine.  And even though I want people to read it, it’s okay if they don’t.  At least I tell myself that.  But you never know.  Someone might come across your writing and want to help you out.  You never know.

blooms5
This stuff is literally all over the place here.

Last night, I spent much of the evening playing guitar with some people I hadn’t met before. The guy who invited me seemed kind of eccentric, and lived in a wealthy neighborhood.  We arrived at the door and were greeted by another fellow.  It was all kind of awkward at first, nobody introduced anyone to anyone, but they gave me a chair and a mic, and off we went.  Maybe they figured we’re all grownups and it would all work out.

Well, the eccentric fellow turned out to be an expert in terrorism and international law, and has been on several White House transition teams, and was on the National Security Council during the Nixon administration.  And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

blooms2
I mean, seriously, everywhere.

That’s all I care to share, out of privacy.  But the point is, again, you never know.  I went to pick up my old Gurian acoustic after having it repaired by an esteemed luthier in Hollywood.  That’s where I met my new acquaintance, the one with the interesting background (and present).  We had a few things in common, he invited me to come down and play music sometime, and the next thing you know, you’re learning about Dick Cheney and Al Gore from someone who knows them.

You never know.

blooms3
The hills are alive, with the sound of… well, billions of bees, actually.

Dick Cheney has an important role in Smoking In Bed: dreams of love, sex and terrorism.  Folks have a lot of preconceptions and feelings about Cheney and I didn’t want him to become some caricature of evil, so I tried to ignore my preconceptions.  My new friend says he was a nice guy until he went off the deep end.

I think he came out pretty good.  Please read my book and let me know.

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