This blogger’s life

Writing has almost always been a part of my waking life. I feel lost without my laptop, or a pen and pad of paper.

I used to write tons of letters, the old-fashioned kind with good stationery and a packet of stamps. Now I write posts for the world to see, though my friends, not so much.

This site has been up for a little over six months, while my first site, Wade on Birmingham, hit the one-year mark Friday. Between the two sites, I’ve written more than 850 posts.

Wow.

[Forgive me this one indulgence. I hate reading about writing, and yet, force you to do so.]

I typically read up online when I can, checking out fave news and entertainment sites daily. I read other blogs, though mostly local ones, and usually just skimming.

I have a running list of ideas, longer than I’ll ever get to, to write or produce on schedule. Whenever I get an idea, I write it down — or more likely, type it into the list. That’s the only way I’ll keep track.

Some nights, I’ll reach deep down and pull out a mood, or an event, or a memory and run with it. I usually avoid riffing on current events, because I did it for so long at the newspaper.

“You’ve riffed on current events.” “And yet, I’ve never riffed on me.”

The poems are about as close to stream of consciousness as I get. The rest is the joy/drudgery of writing.

It’s one take. I write it, I check it over for flow, typos and brevity and then, blammo (blammo?), it’s live.

I can push myself to be funny when I’m not feeling funny. Or sad when I’m OK. Whatever the piece calls for, I can bring it most times.

I pull bits and pieces out of my hectic life to parade like so much scavenged refuse from the roadside. It’s all lying there, until I come along and snatch what no one else wants.

Look at my shiny sentences, cobbled from discarded words, to fill up screen after screen after screen.

I was here.