On Writing About a Bunch of Stuff No One Cares About

A co-worker and I danced around those topics about which we write.  He writes about being a dad.  He writes about the breath and pulse of the city and he writes with a voice that is honest and resonates with his sense of humor.  

I write about…stuff no one really cares about.

And while we laughed a little at ourselves, and maybe a bit at one another, we spoke more about why we write. 

My mom suggested once that writing, for someone like me, is like breathing for anyone else.  And while it’s extreme and self-admittedly silly, the simile’s right on par, really.  I write a lot.  I have shelves lined with smashed books and even more shelves sheltering hundreds of pieces of paper, slammed with tiny letters, I just can’t seem to part with.  I have reams of paper, notepads and notebooks at the ready should something come to mind. I keep them at work, at home, in the car, beside my bed, in my purse and if I could find a water-proof tablet and pen, I’d keep both in my shower because with water comes wisdom.   I write at work, maybe when I shouldn't be.  I text myself notes about characters who take up space in my head.  I write mostly because too much exists in my head and I get lost, there, sometimes, like when I think about fries...

I have a maddening love affair with fries, especially McDonald’s fries and I spend time mulling over the fact that sometimes I hate myself for how much I love McDonald’s fries despite that the fact that I know better.  I think about the social impacts McDonald’s has on the “family dinner” and the deranged factory farms from whom they purchase their meat.  And I think about all those kids who will grow up thinking lettuce is a floppily over-sogged piece of green that looks sort of like bile.  And I think about how places like McDonald’s only procure our society’s assumption that eating foods grown from deep brown earth by people who've known and sewn the ground for generations is not only less cost effective but also less satisfying than eating a soggy slab of cow. We just cannot seem to appreciate the simplicity of a ruby-red sun-drenched fresh tomato bathed in sheets oil and vinegar.

 And then I think about the damn fries again.  McDonald’s fries are an explosion of salted amazingness. 

And since this will live in my head for a while I decide to write about how it feels to hate one’s self for loving those damn fries.  And I don’t write about the fries for anyone but myself.  Because really, who cares?

And I think, for a moment, I might be ridiculous.

And my co-worker’s words come back to me.

He explains that we write because we have to.  Not for the purposes of entertainment; nor for recognition.  Not even to educate.  We’re not trying to make a point.  We’re just…breathing.  In and out.

We write because we have to, despite what our tirades may say about us.  We’re a little off.

But he did simply say “it’s the crazy ones that make it.”

I reassess for a moment and know there’s some other eco/animal-fanatic who also loves McDonald’s fries as much as I do.  So perhaps it’s me writing about fries and slaughter houses for that person; so they know they aren't alone.

I've not posted anything here in some time.  Not because I don’t have anything to say but because what I have to say is sometimes so minimal in comparison to the intellectual complexities we’re bound to in this life.  And as much as I’d love to write intelligently about those said complexities; sometimes I just have to write about nothing. There’s this weighted pressure to ensure that one’s words measure up to something meaningful, wise and enchanting. 

And the simple fact remains: not every teller of stories' voice is equal to that of Isabel Allende’s and not every thought is as provocative as those belonging to Herman Hesse.

Sometimes it just is and that is enough.

Thus there exists a troop of folks who write despite the fact that few may care though it gives us the space to take a breath.  It provides us with the momentum of following through with what it is we simply must do.  Deep breaths in and out, providing release from those thoughts which swim through the veins of thought: gone and expelled, making room for more.

So, cheers to me (and those around me- I vow to be less haggard in return for the freedom of having removed these crazy bits from my noggin) for writing about the stuff no one cares about once more.