That’s why I’m here – because I’m talking to myself, in the sense of telling things to the air. I think I’ve been doing it about my entire life; I thought everyone did and maybe they do; I don’t know. But, once, over two decades ago an editor remarked about a column I was writing, “You just sit down and write these things out, don’t you?”
She intended it as a compliment and she said she was envious, that when she wrote a non-news piece, she agonized over just how she wanted to phrase her thoughts and feelings.
Maybe because I can not hear music as others do, I tended to gravitate toward the rhythm of words in poetry and the parts of speeches that were intended to move people and not just inform. There are lines of poems that replay in my mind’s ear the way people seem to hum popular songs.
Ah, this actually is beginning to read like something I should not “just sit down and write” – hmmm. Well, the hell with thinking about it. And, I guess, the hell with writing right now. When I sat down I was upset, mentally telling the air a tale of perceived woe like a monologue. It was more than my usual upset; I felt the need to write and I figured I’d just not publish anything I typed.
Now, it seems to be out of my system and if I need to post anything, it’s a sigh and a “Well, let’s get to it.”