Goofing Around-13

Okay.  I think you should all admit that you are, indeed, writers.  Hey, this media works for you. This is where you find the love, the place of doing, the retreat, the reward.  I’m in total sympathy.  Me too. 

 

So here’s the question for GA-13.  Do you need an audience? Will you stop if you don’t have readers?  Do they matter–these folks who peruse your word.  And how come?

 

This questions matters to me.  I lurch from side to side.  One day, I’m willing to start myself on fire.  I need no one.  Other days, I bask in your warm glow.

 

How does this work.  Do we need readers?  Or would you write even if no one was here.

 

Talk to me.

 

 

53 responses to “Goofing Around-13

  1. Uh-oh. Gut check time.

  2. Maybe I bounce back and forth on this issue as well. To be sure – I like creating things that people enjoy. So if someone reads what I’ve written and finds it insightful, witty, or downright funny, then fantastic.

    But I think mainly, for me, writing is just an outlet. An expression of myself where I can be whomever I choose, but especially the “real me” though. I just get a charge out of recording what I’m thinking – whether it be a poem for a friend, a short story just for me to explore or writing about my day in my blog. I love the adventure 🙂

  3. I believe that I do need an audience. If I knew the words I wrote were going no further than into a document in my word processor program or onto a page in a notebook, I wonder if I’d have the motivation to continue. I definitely get satisfaction from expressing myself by writing. I have written a great deal which nobody has and maybe never will read.

    It’s clear to me that the majority of my writing has been motivated by online writing classes, this Goofing Around site and now my blog. I thrive on knowing that what I write is in a place where there’s likelihood that it will at least be noticed. I tend to shy away from face to face social interactions so I’m drawn to my computer to fulfill my need for connecting with other people.

    One small comment by a reader that indicates someone has read something I’ve written can light a fire within me that keeps me going for a long stretch of time. If I had no one to bounce my words to, I fear I’d stop bringing them out to play.

    And yet, it’s hard to imagine my world without my toy box of words and someone to play with.

  4. Where have all my friends gone? I’ve got my toy box of words and I’ll share all of them with anyone who wants to play.

  5. I’m thinking about this one. That gives me a headache. Would you have a toy box full of Excedrin?

  6. Hmmm. I really don’t write very much at all.
    When I do write, I think it falls into two different categories. One is performance writing, where I really hope to get a reaction out of someone, whether a wow, or rotflmao. Either way, very cool and very rewarding. I love it.
    There are other times when I feel an intense need to write something because there is no other adequate way for me to express what I’m feeling.
    One of my brothers died 11 or 12 years ago. I had not seen him in a long time, and we had some serious unresolved issues. It was tearing me up inside trying to deal with his death and the fact that I’d now never be able to have it out with him, find out why he had done certain things, and (I had always assumed) eventually become friends again.
    At 3:00 am on a very restless night I got up and sat at my kitchen table and wrote everything out in a poem. It was an amazing catharsis for me. I was able then to go to sleep, and finally relax and get on with the whole funeral/moving on business.
    Now, I could show that poem to others, and that would be fine. (I think I have.) That isn’t as important to me, though, as the NEED I had to write it.
    But, oh, to have an audience ooh-ing over my every word….
    Sigh.

  7. Midnight-thirty. The heel of my hand is shiny red from constant contact with the mouse pad. My neck aches almost as much as my butt. Nobody ever said chair glue was cushioned. My eyes sting from reading too much. Maybe I need new glasses. Need them cleaned, for sure. My desk is in its usual state of disarray, research downloaded and printed and scattered about, mixed in with discarded drafts and Costco coupons. Notes written in pencil, e-mail addresses to add to the Outlook Express book.

    (The Navy Seals rescued Capt. Phillips. Hallelujah! We needed that, “we” being our collective psyches. Scratch three pirates.)

    “Would you?” She asked a question. “Would you write if no one read it?” Gut check time. No goofing around in Goofing Around-13. This is serious business. This might be the ultimate question, the one that defines us. “Would you?” she asks.

    (Susan Boyle, 47, unemployed, never been kissed. Lives alone with only her cat. Instantly she is a You Tube superstar. She doesn’t have the voice of an angel—it’s much too emotional and powerful for an angel. She has a voice I could listen to forever. I must have replayed her “I Dreamed a Dream” two dozen times tonight.)

    Back to the question of questions. Writing, publishing, big scary dreams. Sometimes the very thought makes me want to curl up on the floor of my closet and hide. You know, I tell myself, you couldn’t handle public notice of any kind, neither fame nor disgrace. So, that isn’t why you write.

    (Pablo decided to help me edit a piece for my blog. Huge triangular-shaped chunks are missing from the top of the printed page. “Delete this part,” he said. Great. A live-in critic to keep the left brain company.)

    So, why do I write? I don’t strive for the next great American novel. I don’t yearn to write inspirational poetry. My mission in life is to raise doggerel from the literary gutter to an accepted place in polite society. Why? It’s fun, and not nearly the work that poetry requires. Does that make me a lazy writer?

    (Ugh. Income tax day. Off to the post office with two envelopes to mail so the drunken sailors in D.C. can continue their profligate spending. Put that on your blog and post it!)

    Then there’s the other. The serious blog. The one where I tell a story that brutally true, but use pseudonyms for all the characters, even me. Just started that one this week. After three years of wrestling with the decision, this seems like the safest venue. The story eats at me from the inside. It demands release. And yet…it could hurt others. Unless I leave out those parts. What to do? Well, cross that bridge when I get there.

    (I make the long walk out to the highway every morning to pick up the newspaper. If I’m lucky, the orange protective sleeve is visible under the snow and slop the highway guys have plowed into my driveway. My reward is solving the Cryptoquote. Maybe I should have been a spy. I’m good at this. Every once in a while I am rewarded with a treasure: “You don’t write because you want to say something; you write because you have something to say.” F. Scott Fitzgerald. )

    Would I? Would I stay in bed when the muse knocks on my noggin at 2 a.m.? Could I resist pulling off to the side of the highway because an insistent idea demands saving? Do I care if nobody reads anything I write?

    (I get out of bed turn on the computer, impatient as it boots up, words crashing and colliding in my head. I let the muse run free, let her dictate the words. Get them all out, then clean up the mess. Get out the polishing cloth and the Bon Ami.)

    Do I care? Would I quit if my words weren’t read? Ah, to bask in approval. Gold stars, Brownie points, good on ya, Mate! Is that why I write? Is that why I scroll down to read any comments at the blog? In part, yes. Atta boys are oh-so-sweet.

    But, what if no one read my words. Would I continue to write?

    How could I not? I would explode from the pressure of pent-up words.

  8. Ooh! A toy box of words! I’m smiling and thinking about how all the words look when they’re piled in the toy box and also when they’re dumped out in preparation for play. Tell us more about your toy box of words, Shaddy. Pleeaassee!

    GA-13 is just what I needed. Ann Linquist Writes and Ann Linquist ROCKS!

  9. Gully, you forgot to say the same thing I forgot to say before beginning: I’ll only answer this question, Ann, if you promise you’ll read my answer!!!

  10. My Toy Box of Words

    Somedays, I can’t even get the lid of my box to open. Everything inside is silent and hunkered down indefinitely. The lid’s stuck shut so I can’t even console the moody little critters. If I peek through the crack where the lid meets the box, the words “go” and “away” march defiantly in my direction, stepping all over the others.

    On bright, beautiful days, all the words are playfully wrestling with each other inside my toy box. The lid is wide open without any of my assistance. The more assertive words run up and over the side, eager for me to notice them. I let my entire vocabulary run all over the house, only interrupting their games when I need to line up a handful of them for possible use in my next sentence.

  11. Love your metaphor, Shaddy.

  12. Galloping Gully,

    Whoa, old girl! You’re giddyupping and a prancing all over creation with your words today. So Pablo has appointed himself as your editor; your own live-in critic. Triangular chunks ripped right out of your papers! A feisty fowl to be sure. I don’t mean to condone his actions but some of your spunk was bound to rub off on him after all the years you’ve co-existed.

    I enjoyed your submission to no end, my dear. I don’t care why you write, who you write for, when you write, what you’re wearing when you write, I just thank God that you do AND that you don’t hoard it but instead squander it freely and generously.

  13. Thanks, Shaddy. Sometimes my writing squandering reminds me of a trip in Mexico in 1989. We rode with friends who drove from Cabo San Lucas up the Baja. We could tell we were nearing a town when we were still ten miles out. How? Easy. The garbage dumps were a little ways out of town, and the winds blew trash everywhere….

  14. Oh yes, Maureen,

    I agree that writing is a great healer. When we’re really hurting, the assemblage of words that erupts from our pain has the strength to uplift not only ourselves as we write, but, should we choose to share the written expression of our suffering, others may glean a sense of hope and connection from our initally private catharsis.

    In other words, Maureen, keep writing when you need to and keep coming back here just for the fun of it.

  15. Anybody seen Walk? Could he be “walking to New Orleans?”

    (Those are lyrics to a song, I do believe). It’s running through my mind but not clearly enough for me to spell it out).

    If you read this, Walk, it’s your turn to tell us why in the world YOU write. Other than to torment us!

  16. I’m a little bit worried…
    a little bit lonely….
    a little bit blue-oo–oo…

    I sent him an e-mail….
    asked for a “howdy”….
    he never came through-oo–oo…

    He’s been way too quiet…
    Never said a word….
    That’s really not like Wa-ah-alk…

    (Sorry, I just watched American Idol…) Nope, I wrote to Walk a couple days ago, asking about his silence. Nada. If nothing else, he’d be here with his jokes to egg us on. His blog hasn’t been touched, either. Let’s hope he’s just been working long hours again. Or, maybe his computer blew up and he’s chasing words all over Oklahoma.

  17. The bitter answer to why I write:
    I write to offset the shallow nonsense of weekday mornings spent rushing around and dressing in clothes bought specifically to wear to a place I’d rather not be. I write to compensate for the drive to “the workplace” and for increasing my carbon footprint while decreasing the time I have for more fulfilling endeavors. I write to balance the remorse I feel for leaving my family and my home for ten or more hours a day.

    The workplace design is described as “open-concept.” We sit in cubicles with only low walls to separate us. Crammed in close – put together to increase productivity – we spend much energy trying not to hear one another. But hear we do. Laughter, phone calls, sneezes, keystrokes.

    I listen to my co-workers type into a machine that spits out their written words to another machine in another cubical on the other side of the office in front of another person who I can’t see but who I can hear sneeze.

    There’s a constant clatter of fingers poking at little plastic letters – a qwerty symphony conducted by the bottom line. The refrain – you’d rather be writing but you’re stuck here – plays over and over. In an attempt to re-focus, I look out the window (hey, at least I have a window) but the glimpse of a sunny sky only makes me more antsy. I wish COB would come ASAP (oh, how I love corporate jargon).

    When EOD finally arrives, I pack up stealthily. My eyes lowered, I slink down the stairwell and out the door. I’m leaving the office at 6:00 pm while devoted colleagues still peck away at their keyboards.

    As the distance between me and the workplace increases, I hold my head higher and lower my shoulders. If the traffic gods are pleased, I’ll have four or so hours with those I love. I’ll try to squeeze in some time to read, write, and find meaning before it’s time to go to bed and greet another work day with a prayer for serenity.

    I write to escape futility.

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    The soul-searching, honest answer to why I write:
    With the exception of Fridays, when I listen to techno music to forget the work week and prepare to enjoy the weekend, most other days I listen to National Public Radio (NPR) during my drive home from “the workplace.”

    Recently, NPR’s All Things Considered program aired an interview with David White, an electrician in the small town of Brimfield, Massachusetts, on a mission to save his native language, Nipmuc, from dying. (The link to the story and the interview Keeping the Native Nipmuc Language Alive is below.)

    http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=103028551

    As I listened, my mind multi-tasked (note to self: leave the corporate jargon at the office). Ahem. Start again. I thought about why I write as the journalist, Arun Rath, asked David how he would describe installing a light switch in Nipmuc. “I don’t think there’s any word for switch, or electricity for that matter. Maybe you could say … ‘lightning’ would be electricity, and lightning is ptoquahin,” he said. “Caged lightning, I guess. I don’t know how you’d say lightning in a cage, but I guess that’s how you’d describe it.”

    David’s adaptation of language, his fight to conserve Nipmuc, and the image of “lightning in a cage” illuminated why I write.

    Writing is how I preserve my native language. Through writing, I record my heritage, my interpretation, and any wisdom I’ve acquired. Writing lets the lightning out of the cage and into my darkest corners. Writing energizes and gives me power to share, create, and understand. I’m compelled to not let my language fade away, so I write with the hope that my words will one day enlighten someone (even if that someone is only me).

  18. …electricity defined as “Lightning in a cage.”

    “Writing lets the ‘lightning out of the cage’ “…

    Your connection of David White’s words for electricity with what writing does for you is very thoughtful and interesting.

    You’ve already enlightened someone: me.

  19. Nice work, Zelda.

    “lightning in a cage…” sometimes that’s how my head feels, and ususally at the most inopportune moments.

  20. Welcome, Rob.

    It’s great to have a new writer join our group (at least new to us).

    I agree 100% that writing is an adventure. Whenever I sit down and write, without exception, something about the experience will surprise and delight me.

    Feel free to chime in whenever. Ann is pretty lenient with us, so far anyway. 🙂

  21. Writing

    Childhood: My father played in a country music band. They practiced at our house most of the time, filling up the living room with guitars, fiddles, and a steel guitar. Albums from the country music and bluegrass singers from the fifties and early sixties were always scattered about. Album covers with coffee-stained rings, full ashtrays and smoke coming from a half-finished cigarette. And great music. I was around nine or ten years old and decided to write a song for the band. They laughed when I marched my creation into the living room. My daddy approved with a chuckle, “well, that’s all right” and the scribbled piece of notebook paper probably got thrown away the next day. I guess I just wasn’t cut out for songwriting.

    Teenager: I stayed in my room with the door locked. I wrote some things. Poems, journals, other attempts at writing. I kept it hidden. Secret writing. That’s what I wanted. But one day I had a reader. Not a welcomed one. Not an invited one. But a reader, nonetheless. I was humiliated and was told to quit wasting so much time and to find something useful to do. So I did. For years and years.

    September 2006: A random mailing of a community college fall schedule laying on my kitchen table. I sat with a cup of coffee, thumbing through and daydreaming about going to school. Something caught my eye. An online writing class. Beginner Writers Workshop. A hidden, overwhelming need poured out along with the tears. My life changed that morning. Scared out of my wits, I signed up. Had I finally lost my mind? I found that I would have an instructor and other online students. I would have to submit my writing and these people would read it. Not only would they read it but they could respond to it. I realized I must close my eyes and jump. Soon I began to get tiny trickles of affirmation. These readers said they liked my work. I wasn’t ready for these warm smiles saying, “oh, I like this. Keep going. Keep trying”. This was foreign to me. I could not allow myself to believe anything they said. You know those nasty voices in your head that tell you they are just being nice, that they know you are not a real writer. I could have handled anything negative, after all, I had been trained to protect myself. Even though I questioned their affirmation, I continued to write and release it to the class. I waited and watched for a response, realizing that these people–these writers and readers mattered to me. And before long, God forbid, I found I needed these writers. I treasured them. I allowed them to read my work. My unprotected work coming from the heart.

    Now: I still write. I have to write. Like I have to breathe. Most of it is hidden, secret writing. Just my words stringing along into essays and such. Lots of starts on fiction. And alot of stops. And fragments. This writing is tucked away in folders, hibernating. Who knows when a puff of wind may bring it to life. Sometimes I get real excited watching the connections hooking all of this together, sort of like a daisy chain. Maybe someday, it will have a reader. When it’s time. One thing is for sure, I will keep writing and some of it will be released to readers. And some of it will be released to Providence. I find I need both.

  22. We wouldn’t recognize each other if we had a cat fight over the last copy of a new writing how-to book at Barnes and Noble. Most of us don’t know each other’s real names, or e-mail addresses. Nonetheless there is a kinship that is almost blood-close, because we shed tears and opened veins as we progressed through BWW. And then, in a magical few days at Lesson Eight, when there was no assignment, we declared recess. Out of the classroom we poured, into the playgrounds of our imaginations. We delved into the toy box of words. We didn’t know then that it was Shaddy’s, but she was willing to share. And we bonded with the Superglue of words, our love of writing, of late-night soul-bearing.

    We have lost some brothers and sisters too precious to lose–Orlando, Sandra Dee, Aloma, Norriceann, and many more. And where, we ask now, is Walk? In the thickets of online anonymity, others lurk, keeping an eye on our shenanigans, but only occasionally answering to an impromptu roll call–just to let us know that they, too, remember a special time and a special place.

  23. Had you all heard about the awful wildfires in Oklahoma and Texas? I’ve been on vacation and out of the news loop so I only learned about the situation today.

    http://www.cnn.com/2009/US/weather/04/11/southwest.wildfires/index.html

    ** sending all the positive energy I can muster Walk and his loved ones **

  24. I’m so glad, KathyH, that you are writing. It’s unfortunate that your initial attempts weren’t welcomed but now your words can flow for any reason you choose to release them.

    I’ve had a longstanding desire to write also but never gave myself permission until BWW. I’ve decided to be thrilled that I didn’t realize my dreams sooner. BWW has opened up worlds I didn’t know existed and worlds I appreciate more now than I may have years ago. As we get older, new opportunities don’t always present themselves or maybe we don’t look hard enough.

    There’s a time for everything and our time for writing is now. So let’s JUST DO IT, regardless of the past, the future, its significance, a response or lack of any, opposition, criticism, praise, applause, etc.

    By hearing what we write, as we write it, we come to know what is right for us in our lives. We gain the confidence to step forward, unaffected by what those around us may have or will say.

    Our words may take us places we’ve never dreamed of. As you just stated, “Who knows when a puff of wind may bring it to life?”

  25. BWW, our term of endearment for Ann’s writing class, was one unbelievably impressive and memorable experience for those of us who participated in the 9/20/2006 session as Gully has written. I know other aspiring writers have shared similar enlightening instruction and direction in Ann’s other sessions.

    For me, the benefits I reaped during September, October and November of ’06 are still propelling me down a road similar to the Yellow Brick Road. I’ve met people on my way who are looking for basically the same things as I am. All that we are is at our fingertips waiting to be expressed via pen or keyboard.

    I conclude. We’re all the same, we just write differently. And, that’s the beauty of it all.

  26. Your thoughts regarding what may explain Walk’s absence, Zelda, are frighteningly possible.

    I also send my thoughts and prayers to him and his family

  27. For some reason, I have the impression that Walk lives in the southeastern part of the state. Any fires or storms there recently? Let’s just hope his computer crashed, but then Walk works on a computer and he’d be able to reach us. Maybe he’s in Hawaii!!!

  28. Aloha ha hee hee.

    Thanks for all the concern. GA12 became reality for me as my father passed away last Wednesday after 89 years of a wonderful life. I was lucky enough to be there for his last breath and know that he wasn’t suffering when time came. So, that’s where I’ve been the last week. I’ll chime in later after my mind clears.

    The wildfires that Zelda mentioned were close, 5 miles south and 15 miles east, but I haven’t heard what damage was done since I’ve been out of pocket since they blazed their path. I heard we did get some rain so maybe the fire season is over.

  29. Okay, the world has Susan Boyle in its heart, Walk’s back safe and sound (?), and all is well with the world.

  30. Walk

    What a relief to hear from you. Glad you are safe from the fires out there. I know how precious it was to be with your father, I’m glad you were able to be with him. We all will be here thinking of you and waiting for you to get back here to us. We missed you.

    Shaddy

    I used to question my personal life events and wondered, irritatedly, why. And the writing thing. All those years, wasted, gone, down the drain. All those blank, stark white sheets of paper never used. And even now, I can’t help getting frustrated about it but not as much as I used to. What was, was. Can’t change it. And I think you are right–had I been writing all those years, I might not have appreciated it like I do now. Maybe it took those years of yearning to write but never writing to get me to where I am now. I like to think so. Now I look at it as the way it was supposed to happen. Thing is though, you know when you are older, ahem, mature, time goes by so much faster than when you’re young, so I feel panicked sometimes that I might not get it all written, you know? Didn’t someone announce that being fifty-eight is the “new thirty-eight”? If that’s true, then why isn’t my life slowing down. I feel I’m headed full steam ahead for sixty! And beyond!

  31. Gullible

    I miss all those writers you mentioned above. And I hope they do lurk here from time to time. And I often think of all those 300+ from BWW and wish they’d flood the gates and show up. I don’t know if you all will remember this one in particular but I sure got attached to her and won’t ever forget her. She went by the name “73%Nerd”. I hope she’s still writing. And I hope she is doing well. I agree with you, I believe we are closer than blood-relatives. And we are bonded with even those that stay silent and hidden. Now, what I’d like to know is–where is Shy and Summergoose?

  32. Dear Walk,

    I offer you my condolescences on the loss of your father.

    Shaddy

  33. Walk,
    You’re in my thoughts. Sending wishes for peace to you and your loved ones.
    Sincerely,
    Zelda

  34. Thanks y’all for thinking of my family and myself. Losing someone isn’t easy, but death is part of life, and the living must go on. Besides, my dad wasn’t one that likes attention so, on I’ll go.

    *******************
    Why I write. I think it’s because it brings out the persona that I wish to be. In person, I don’t speak much in everyday life. You know the old saying, don’t say anything and make people think you’re stupid instead of speaking and removing all doubt. I like being by myself in a room full of people. If we sat at a table over a cup of coffee, we’d discuss the weather and then I wouldn’t have much else to say. So writing lets me express myself in ways that I otherwise don’t. I can write words that are romantic, words that are funny, words that are spiritual, words that cut to the quick and words that say nothing at all. I write for the same reason I read, to take me to another place, another time. To relive old memories and to dream about making new ones. I write because there is nothing else that does that. I write because I have found friends in cyberspace that mean as much to me as those I’ve known for a long time, and writing brought those friends to me. As Kathy said, BWW did change my life for the better. Thank you Ann and thank you cyberbuds. Enough mushy stuff, lets go write, besides lunch is over.

    I guess I should answer the question: Yes, I would write for the above reasons.

  35. Barbara Burris

    Would I write if no one read it? Of course I would. Mine are the only eyes that have seen decades of journal entries and it matters not to me whether any others ever view those words. That isn’t to say I don’t love an audience. (hm-m-m double negative??) Writing is performance art, after all. In my head I’m up on that stage acting each and every part to its finest.

    Having an audience, however, does not guarantee appreciation of my efforts. So the bigger question to my mind is, would I keep writing if my audience consistently rejected my work?

    The answer is I’ve been writing for 53 years and it hasn’t stopped me yet.

  36. Barbara Burris

    In response to Walk’s comment on the loss of his father, I send my deepest sympathies. I’m glad you got to be there at the end. May your thoughts find peace.

  37. Welcome back, Walk. You were missed. Many good thoughts are heading your way. Looks like you’re going to “keep going.” All power to you.

  38. Keep on walkin’, Walk. It’s so nice to have you back where you belong. I am happy for you that you were able to spend the last minutes with your father.

    As for your writing, isn’t it satisfying being alone with yourself in a large group of people? It takes, of course, enjoying your own company, and that takes liking yourself. That’s a point I finally achieved three years ago, and life has been a hoot ever since.

    I, too, tend to be quite quiet around others, but in front of the monitor I run off at the keyboard ad nauseum. Those times I can’t, I am lost.

    Here’s a thought:

    “Writer’s aren’t exactly people. They’re a whole lot of people trying to be one person.”–F. Scott Fitzgerald.

  39. Ohhh, a new voice come to play. Welcome, Barbara.

  40. HELLOOOO and welcome Rob and Barbara. Good blog Rob, liked the one about your “Dr’s appointment.

    Gully, in reference to liking oneself. I had a low self esteem when I entered the ranks of the divorced. I was listening to a tape called “Picking Up The Pieces” by Clyde somebody and he said before you can love someone else, you first have to love yourself. That’s when I quit trying to be what others wanted me to be and became who I wanted to be. So like me, despise me, love me, or hate me, just let me be me. :>)

  41. Walk and Gully, I guess if we all ever get together to visit, we’ll each have to have a keyboard in front of us!

  42. My back deck is large enough to hold all of us with our lap tops. Great thought, Maureen.

  43. TO SUMMERGOOSE:

    “Oh my word
    She’s there again
    Nagging at
    My quiet pen”

    Need I remind you of the consequences?

  44. Oh, Gully, what a picture! The whole lot of us, sitting in comfy outdoor chairs, not speaking a word, just clickety-click tap-tap, with occasional outbursts of laughter!

  45. What a picture indeed! I’m grinning from ear to ear as I visualize the lot of us, after traveling hundreds and hundreds of miles to be together. I reckon we might as well save ourselves the money and effort it would take to get within touching distance.
    But then again, on the deck, sitting elbow to elbow, we could pass the happy juice bottles from one to another and get a peek at each other’s faces as we swallow and burp.
    I suspect before the night was done, we’d be clickety-clicking on each other’s laptops sprawled in a tangle on the deck boards.
    It would definitely be a night to write about for years and years and years…..

  46. Shaddy, I don’t know how you managed to make that sound so absolutely filthy!
    …We’d definitely need to get Orlando in on that one…

  47. I don’t know how I did that either, Maureen. I swear I didn’t mean what you’re thinking!!! Why Maureen, where’s your mind? Obviously, you don’t have a laptop COMPUTER.
    Holy crap! I’m laughing so hard I can barely type. Oh my God! Help me, somebody, anybody, please help me–I’m dying here. My sides are hurting and my face is all wet.

    I honestly meant that after we had a few drinks we’d get our laptop COMPUTERS all mixed up. I’d have Gully’s, she’d have Walk’s, etc., etc.

    Dang, I’m cracking up again. After all the drinks we’d lose our balance and fall down on the deck. A large group like us would probably get a bit tangled up with the chairs, laptop COMPUTERS, drinking glasses, bottles, etc.

    It’s been one of those days. Right, Gully?

    Well, Maureen. I haven’t laughed so hard for quite some time so thank you for that. I had no clue that I was capable of such filth. That opens up another whole world of writing possibilities for me.

  48. Wallowing in a sea of double entendre. Somebody throw Shaddy a Kleenex and a life ring.

  49. Oh, Barbara. Maureen’s the naughty one in this group. (Tee hee). She twists things until they’re barely recognizable. It’s all her fault that I’m considering adding another writing genre to my repertoire.

    Ann has asked her to clean up her act but I don’t think Maureen is capable of it. I feel sorry for her because being naughty is just her nature.

    On the other hand, I’m the one who wanders the halls, handing out reprimands when required (unfortunately quite frequently). I’m growing weary of the responsibility but all this raw, naked talent running rampant can only bring disaster if uncontrolled.

    So I must warn you. Participate at your own risk in this questionable environment.

    Thank you for your attention to this matter, Barbara, and welcome.

  50. Howling with laughter! And, on that note, please direct your attention to GA-14.

  51. I have so many things constantly running through my mind that to me, writing is a release regardless what I write about. Music is also a release, whether I’m just listening or singing. From the audience perspective, I enjoy what I can relate to. I’ve been through a lot of things in the course of my life, so to pick up a book and to completely understand, without a doubt, the emotions that the characters experience, makes me feel a little less alone and misunderstood. So I guess what I’m saying is that, while some writers need an audience at times, I think the audience needs the writer at times just as much, if not more.

    I can become very anxious about having an audience, I think I expect a lot of harsh criticism from others because I’m so critical of myself. Sometimes I’m not sure if I would use my real name if I ever got to the point of publishing material.

  52. Welcome, Sabrina. (what a wonderful nickname). This is a safe place. Feel free to share your words, no matter what they are. The interaction here is positive, friendly, and yes, it helps your writing!

    Keep in touch. –Ann

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s