The weather in Seattle is warm and windy today.
So I want to share about me being a baby writer.
Before I had my own computer I worshipped pen and notebook. I have always loved fancy little journals, but always wind up buying steno pads. When I was about 21 and had a day off from my phone sex company office job, I’d take about 5-8$ and head up to the Capital Hill Neighborhood in Seattle.
Remember, I am an Old so back then Cap Hill was full of street kids, Queers, poor folks, etc. It was way less prone to dudebro shitbag behavior and the violence that brings.
I’d take my little money and buy the biggest coffee, I could afford and head into the park. I would lay in the grass in the sun with my coffee and watch gutter punks lay about, guys cruise each other, sometimes the gutter punks I hung around would come over and I’d read them my poems or help them patch their clothes and we’d talk about writing being magic.
That was magic.
I kind of miss writing that way, even though I was so self conscious about it and put an entirely different kind of pressure on myself then than I do now.
Back then, my goal was to magic up myself a full, complete book of writings. Then I would find myself some very wealthy benefactor who would parcel out my pieces to publishers while I gallivanted.. uh no let me be real fucked my way around the world.
I look back at baby me and just kind of chuckle.
You had a GREAT idea kid.
Even though writing was a thing I did in secret, as in I didn’t tell my friends or family but shared it with strange street kids and it was really difficult and traumatic, it was okay.
I learned how to write with absolute abandon. At that time I often burned my journals when I was done with them so I wrote like my words wouldn’t exist and that taught me a lot.
Okay, I’m an OLD and I am yammering.
So here have some news. I have some new stuff at Medium so go have a looksy.
Things will lighten up around here soon. I’ve got many irons in the fire and a fire in my belly.
I’ll be all right y’all.