The First Words are the Hardest

What do you say after almost a year? If my life were a novel, my last post would have been the end of not just a chapter, but a whole book. I can say this confidently because it’s exactly where I would end the novel in my head. In my mind, last September was the end of Tales from Sick and Twisted, the book I’ve been writing in my head since 2003. After all those years, I wasnt sure how the story would end, but I knew it when it happened. And in retrospect, that was the easy part. 

How do you know where the next story begins? 

I always imagined that a sequel to Tales from Sick and Twisted would have to be called Tales from the Realm of FUBAR, because it always seemed that my life was a near constant experiment in the ironic, outrageous, and unbelievable. But things have been strangely calm, even a bit bland. I tell myself that must be the reason I haven’t written in so long–who could possibly be interested in happy, boring and normal? But even as the thought crosses my mind, I know it’s a lie. 

This afternoon I went to see Florence Foster Jenkins. For anyone not familiar, the movie is based on a woman who lived in NYC back in the 1940s. She absolutely adored music and wanted to sing for people, so she booked Carnegie Hall, and performed in front of a sold out crowd. The sad truth was that she couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, but she poured her heart and soul into that performance. And the audience responded. Not just with laughs, but with appreciation as well. 

The truth is, I didn’t start a blog to entertain people; I started writing because I have something to say. I often think back to the guy I met at karaoke a few years ago, who said that he sang not for anyone else’s enjoyment, but strictly for his own entertainment. That was always how I wanted to feel about my writing. But I realized that even though I still have so much to say, I can’t bring myself to put the words out there. 

In many ways, Florence Foster Jenkins is the very embodiment of my greatest fears, not just as a singer (which is its own blog post), but also as a writer. Every piece art carries a small piece of its creator’s soul, and it’s not easy to put those little pieces of your soul out there for everyone to see. 

I still don’t know how my next story begins, but I’ve decided I don’t want to wait anymore. I was talking to Hunter today about it. Tales from Sick and Twisted was the ultimate chick lit novel, my own real life version of Bridget Jones’ Diary. Now my life has gone from movie to sitcom–and not even an exciting sitcom like Bones–life these days is more along the lines of Seinfeld. But then again, Seinfeld did run for 9 seasons, so maybe there’s still some hope for Tales from Suburbia, even if it doesn’t have quite the same ring to it…