If you’re looking for an exciting story, please stop reading right here. I’m not kidding. If you keep reading, the next few minutes could be the biggest waste of your time today. There is a fairly good chance that by the time you get through this, if you make it to the end, you might seriously consider poking yourself in the eye with a sharp instrument just to feel better.
You see, a good story has a clever hook. It has meaningful content. It is driven by sensory laden metaphors that resonate with your own experiences and memories. One minute you laugh and chuckle at self-evident humor told in familiar lore. The next minute you are surprised by emotions that grab your gut and cause moist drops of water to well up in the corners of your eyes.
There will be none of that here. So, just go ahead and give up. Push the “X”. Close the tab. And move on with the rest of your day. I’m begging you.
Every once in a while, a writer has almost nothing to write about. I say “almost” because when a fella commits to writing and develops a faithful following, he has to write. Having absolutely nothing to write about is not an option. So, you put your nose to the wheel and grind out the words.
I thought about writing about how getting old ticks me off. Sunday afternoon I didn’t feel like doing much. We went to a birthday party for my granddaughter after church. It was my weekend to check on things at the farm. And by the time I got home I was worthless. My legs ached and my feet were killing me. I couldn’t figure out why.
Then it hit me. I had spent several hours on Saturday going up and down a ladder. Go up 20 foot. Measure, mark and put two drywall anchors in the wall. Attach a bracket and go down twenty feet. Move the ladder and do it over again. I did this from about 9 ‘til noon. Why I was doing this doesn’t matter. The fact that doing it put me in a sour mood about my age and my inability to do things the way I used to do them 10, 20, 30 years ago is the point. I am an Ibuprofen junkie.
But nobody wants to hear about that.
Maybe you’d like to hear about the closet renovation. That could be fun. This is what happens when the kids have all moved out and you start thinking about what to do with all those old bedrooms.
My wife says to me, “I need a space for all my scrapbook stuff, photos and ancestry research. Couldn’t we convert one of the old bedrooms into a hobby room and redo the closet so I can organize my stuff?”
It seemed like a reasonable request to me. So, I started on the closet. I ripped out all the wire shelves and clothes rods. Filled and sanded all the holes in the wall. Repurposed some of the shelves into our pantry for more space. And started laying out and installing supports for new shelves.
“What are you doing?” my wife asks me.
“You said you wanted to redo the closet for storing all your stuff.”
“But we didn’t talk about what I want.”
“I thought we did. You want a closet full of shelves.”
“Yeah, but, you’re thinking storage. I need to organize my stuff.”
So, we discuss in great detail her vision for what this closet should look like. I decided she was right. I didn’t listen well. You would think that after 42 years I would know that what she sees in her head and what I have in mine often don’t match. I’d tell you more, but this is boring stuff. Just a day in the life of a guy with a hammer and a drill. Nothing exciting here.
If you’re still with me at this point, you’re probably wondering why. But, hey, it’s you’re choice. I told you not to waste your time. You can’t say that I didn’t warn you. Writer’s block is a real thing. There are days when good stories just come out of nowhere. Other days, I have to work at it but somehow manage to put something together. And, then, there are days like this one when I take it as a personal challenge to write about nothing.
What you probably don’t realize is that I feel obligated to you. There’s not a big number of you out there reading my stories. If I quit writing your life would go on without so much as a flinch. Still, I feel the responsibility to write. Even when all I have are a few sucky lines that go nowhere.
I decided a couple weeks ago not the post any longer on FB. I just decided I couldn’t handle the whole drama thing anymore. If I post my stories on FB, I go look at the comments. Feedback keeps me motivated. But then I get caught up in trolling through all the other FB stuff and usually end up depressed over things I cannot control. So, Georgia Bred is not on FB anymore. Feel free to share Georgia Bred on FB yourselves, but I’ve deleted my App for my own sanity.
My readership numbers are down because of that decision, but if you follow Georgia Bred, you still get every story. Mostly about twice a week. Sometimes three. And I want you to know that I appreciate you. I read every comment. I take seriously the connection and the shared memories.
Some of you are cousins. Some old high school friends. Some neighbors. I even have 3 faithful readers from China, one from Estonia, and an occasional reader from Denmark. Hey to y’all over there on the other side of the world. You all deserve a gold medal for hanging in there with me. Especially on a day like today.
Rather than go to my usual limit of 1150 words, I’ll wind it down before I really do bore you to death. Thanks for hanging in there with me the last 17 months. Thanks for all the kind words you’ve returned my way. Thanks for taking the time to comment when you can.
Despite what my wife says, and despite the fact that I am known to fall asleep in the middle of a conversation, I do listen.