I wrote this brilliant blog the other day about how I finally discovered how being all dialogue and no story was okay, and probably the most perfect thing a writer can be, but it’ll have to wait, because my fucking computer crashed … well crashed is the wrong word, my Mac, which is usually the best computer in the world, stopped communicating with the router after it would “wake up” from being asleep. The fix, according to one of the many online forums, was the reload the system software, and reboot everything on the computer from the time machine (which is a default backup program that runs on the Mac … it’s a great idea in theory). Well as luck would have it, because the time machine that backs up my computer is also the router that doesn’t connect, my computer wasn’t actually backed up like it was supposed to be. If any of this makes sense, you’ll know what I’m about to say; I lost the blog. And I mean, let me tell you something, this blog was really good. It was Oprah book club good … It was like I shined a light into the inside of my brain, and sifted through all the snot-like stuff, and came upon this amazing insight that only another writer would appreciate and understand. It was like the gods descended into my fingers, and wrote a piece that wasn’t just written; it was conceived, anointed, and envisioned. It was perfect, and it was perfect because it’s a memory and for no other reason but that.

Memories are perfect; they force emotions into events and create pictures. They are stuff writers are famous for. I mean writers conceived things like love, and hate, and good and bad … we are all well aware that those things aren’t real; we made them all up to drive the world crazy. We all know that love is a flux of emotions and situations and not the overwhelming exchange of chemicals that writers make it out to be. We know that there isn’t any such thing as one perfect kiss, or love at first sight, or anything else we made up that the worlds acts out like puppets on our little stage. We know that there is good in all evil, and evil in all good. We know that the world is gray and colorful … and yes invisible at times even if we paint it in black and white. We know all of this, but it’s hard to describe anything without flooding it with our emotions and ideas, and concepts and personal inventories. We cannot describe a house without knowing the personal tragedies of everyone who ever lived there. We cannot explain a killer without diving into his childhood for clues of victimization. We cannot describes the familiarity of love without grand gestures, and it for that reason the writer … this writer, is never quite sure what he is feeling. Is he writing the event as they happen, is he seeing things as they should be … or is he disappointed that the events are not following his internal script.

Lately I’ve been caught up in a brain trust of memories and emotions that I force myself not to feel mostly. Sometimes it’s hard for me to be in room, or in a conversation that isn’t doing anything. I have a hard time just being there, so I make my life so boring so that I don’t get too caught up in it. I make the joke all the time that I find it hard to get too caught up in my own life, and it’s mostly true. The life as I remember it is way more eventful than the life I live, and trust me, I don’t lie about it … I just interject, and add emotions and opinions to the very aspects of my life that by nature were boring. And that’s what writers do. The point of this blog was to write about exploring your memories and understanding that they are supposed to be different from a recording.

I once said something distasteful about someone, and word got back to them that I had said it. He confronted me about it, and I told him quite simply that I had indeed said what I said, and that I was angry at him … but in my defense, I’m not on the Real World, and I’m not one of the seven strangers stuck in a loft and I’m not always polite. My life is not taped, it is remembered, and there is a difference between those things. I’m responsible for everything I’ve said, and I take full account of all the utterings that have been muttered from this mouth, but even though I said something disparaging about him, all I remember is being angry, and the anger was eventually overwhelmed by the realtiy that he was my friend, and that friendship covered over the anger, and everything else. I’m not supposed to be able to account for every word out of my mouth. I should, and actually most am, free to speak my mind for it’s my memory that will eventually rule the day, and those words will be nothing more than sounds that fell in the forest without anyone to hear them.

This is not to say to not be careful of the words you choose, because they do offend and wound, but be more careful about the memory you appoint to those words. Know what you’re angry at, and know why you’re happy … as a writer you are committed to those memories, and feelings.

So I lost my blog about being all dialogue and no story … and I lost most of my notes for my next podcast, and in my mind whatever comes after it won’t compare. And that’s why I’m a writer. Think about what for a while.

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