I used to post sarcastic “travelogues” on my facebook page and here, and inevitably a couple of people would comment: “Oh, haha. You should write a book!” and I hated you all every time you did it. Because the truth is, in my heart of hearts, I would love to write a book, I would kill to write a book, because, more than anything else, I love stories and I love stories that are well-written. I know what good writing is. I know when someone is a great writer. And I know when someone takes up knitting and creates a snaggy, badly-stitched monstrosity people still say, “Oh that’s beautiful, you should sell your lopsided mismatched scarf on Etsy!”. No they shouldn’t, they’re creating shit, but people feel compelled to hype the mediocre. Positive reinforcement. But of course, people keep knitting and eventually they do get better and maybe they should one day in the far distant future, open a shop on Etsy. And maybe that’s the same with me and writing. If I actually practiced, maybe I’d get better. But the problem is….. I don’t really have anything to write about.
Lots of people have amazing stories but they lack the art of making them interesting. They’ve lived amazing lives but they have the charisma of moist crackers. They’re tasteless and chewy. I have the opposite problem. My life is… really boring. *I’m* absolutely hilarious and insanely amusing, but my life is … great. How do you write a book when you’ve got nothing to write about? Because honestly, all the really great art is about people who are just really fucked up. or written by people who are really fucked up and are using writing as free therapy. Books about the psychological impacts of war (never been impacted, drafted, lost someone), poverty (never been REALLY poor, always had food on the table), books about great tragic romance (haven’t had a tragic romance. Historically, when I break up with someone, I’m usually well done with them and glad it’s over. And even if I was a little bit sad that we weren’t going to be together, like, oh well that’s life, I’m a little bit sad I’m never going to get to eat my favorite meal in all the world again, because the restaurant closed down, but there’s other restaurants and other meals. I’ll be fine). I don’t dwell. And I am currently kind of boringly happy in my relationship. I still like him, he still makes me laugh after two dozen years, and the ratio of finds-him-adorable to wants-to strangle-the-life out-of-him-sometimes is like 98% weighted towards adorable. So, no real drama to draw from, no real angst. I’m not one to truck with angst.
I don’t get people who live their lives in perpetual discontent. If your life’s not working, change it. So I don’t suffer from discontent. Or ambition. I have an overabundance of content which is the complete death knell for ambition. And being content is … really boring. I think all good writers are balls of quivering anxiety working out their issues on the page. I lack a proper anxiety to think of anything really good to write about. My stories would inevitably be, “Main character is about to do something stupid, realizes it’s stupid, doesn’t do it, the end”. No conflict, no drama, no interest, yawn. There are no great dramas made about a middle-aged maladaptive daydreamer, creating stories in her head while the rest of y’all spent your time in more productive ways like watching hours of reality TV.
But, oh god, how I love a well-written story, with a character I can root for. I loved comic books as a kid, stories of mutants and fantasy and horror, and I read biographies of racists and scientists and murderers and I knew that all those stories were rooted in something real. People are endlessly fascinating and endlessly fucking weird. I sit here, content in my grotesquely tranquil life, and I study you all. You baffle me, all of you. People who would vote for Trump, you baffle me. Are you fucking stupid or are you just not paying attention? People who think that there’s no difference between the Democrats and the Republicans right now, are you fucking stupid or are you just not paying attention? Do the Democrats largely suck? Yes. Are they completely incompetent and inept at doing much of anything? Absolutely. Would I like them more if they were slightly more effective? Yes. Because the whole world is about to fucking burn down because of their ineptitude and infighting and overly developed sense of moral outrage, which was so busy eating their own for the last ten years that they let our country elect a crazy demented crackpot cult leader who is literally about to turn our country into a fucking dystopian hellscape. And the Republicans have sold out every iota of value, honor, dignity, sense of duty and actually sold out the concept of democracy while bleating about country and patriotism, the mewling hypocrites. All of it is just out the window at the whim of a whiny, weird, tangerine-colored, Adderal-addled fuckwit who is so clearly a conman and a criminal, and they don’t fucking care.
I used to wonder what were the Germans thinking circa 1938 and now I think I know. I’ve read this story before. I’ve seen this script. Those who do not learn from history, will repeat it. And that tracks doesn’t it? Everything’s a remake now. Jurrassic Park 13, Marvel Superhero 22, same schtick different costume. There are no new stories, and we’ve run out of ways to make the good stories new again, so we’re reduced to recycling the really shitty ones. It’s the in real life equivalent of taking a shitty teenage vampire romance and turning it into a shittier bondage erotica, we’re doing Nazi level fascism and turning it into Christian Nationalism. Woo hoo, go fucking-stupid-us. But at least when the world falls to shit, I’ll have something to write about.
My husband is one of the ones who tells me I should write a book. We were talking about it again recently, when I was blathering on and on about a really great narrative story-telling device I’d seen, and how I appreciated it. Write a book, he says. But again, I have nothing to write about. Except I have this blog. That I used to use to keep people updated when we traveled about our adventures. And now, I’m going to use it as a creative writing exercise. So from here on out, if you’re reading this, none of it is true. It’s just practice. For when the Fourth Reich rises, and I finally have a story worth telling. I’ve always loved dystopian literature, who knew I’d get to live it one day.