Tag: Funny

My life, aka The story of Two Chairs

I realized that my life revolves almost completely around two chairs.

During my life those two chairs have changed. I get a new job and my chair changed or its location changed but I’m still in a chair. I go home, and my chair is there, sure it moves when we change around the room or when I buy a new chair but its always a chair.

From one chair in the past I made my money, from the other chair I lived my life. Granted my life might have been Video games and books, but I spent most of my day in one chair doing those things. When I was not in that chair I was in another chair trying to get to back to that chair.

Perhaps this comes from being raised by “chair people”, my father has a chair as does my mother. My grandparents had chairs. Everyone I know has a chair.

Is it just me or is the world filled with “chair people”???

I love to hike, but I’m always happy to get back to my chair. I love to travel, but I normally find a temporary chair in my hotel rooms. I even have a chair in my car when I travel, and if I travel with people….. woe to the person who sits in my chair!!

My goal is to get to one chair, and maybe a bed…. unless my chair is really comfortable then just the chair. I want to live and work from the same chair. This is my one chair dream….. as insane as that might sounds.

Them-“Jerry what’s your goal in life?”

Me- “To only need one chair”

Brother and sisters of the chair speak up, tell me your chair stories!!!!! Share this with other chair people you love, we must unite!!! Stand up with me (Or sit), and let the world know that we chair people have a voice…. and we just wont stand for anything anymore….

P.S. Yes I’m ashamed of that last line. I also might have set a record for the most times “chair” was used in a blog post….

Demon Authors

I write because I read, and I read because I write. Intertwined inside of the balance of the two I find meaning. This meaning isn’t internal, its a very real external reality that I can feel. The written word has weight, smell and a temperature that is as real to me as a touched flame.

While I write, words flow without my being a part of the process. Only after the words are on the page do I play a role as I read and edit. Almost alien to me where the ideas come from I cut and splice and plot and rewrite until it makes sense until it is mine.

Reading is a very personal thing, almost intimate. Scripture creates hope, allowing me to ignore the noise of daily life. Then during the day, tombs of fiction remove me from my current location and take me to an imaginary world. A world very much alive with details from novels consumed over the decades. Characters draw water from the kitchen of Dean Koontz the Watchers. Another stops for gas at the gas station from the Stand by Stephen King. The characters in what I’m reading move in and out of other storylines without apology.

Audiobooks are my popcorn, listened too as a snack between meals of reading. They float in the background as I buy groceries, drive or walk on the treadmill. I’m often forced to listen several times because I missed a part. Normally while studying how many carbs these chips have or the calories in that juice. They work as a shield against the others. Earbuds in nobody bothers me, my popcorn armor against the mass of humanity that doesn’t add value to my life.

These types of books give me hope that I can write. My crafted worlds come from the towns and locations partially created by these creative thinkers. Then at night, the lights go out and my demons come. In the darkness before sleep I clutch my iPad and read in suffering silence. Shakespeare, Jules Vern, Jane Austen, Harper Lee, Orwell, Steinbeck, and the other masters pummel me with artfully crafted words that leave me both ecstatic with awe and in complete depression at their talent. These writing Gods unparalleled in their ability to craft words, leaving me emotionally drained and broken.

Then sleep, and the morning. To do it over again… my writing, my fiction, my popcorn and my demons.

I Am Legion

My alter ego… lets call him Robert…. sneaks around the edge of my brain when I’m writing. When I’m working on my current project, he likes to slide memos about a zombie books we should be working on under my door. He fidgets and refuses to pay attention when I’m working on my plot and outlines.

He wants to google author salaries and tell me how writing for my chosen genre is a disaster. He agrees with the demons that crawl out from under my bed at night that I’m simply not good enough for anyone to want to read. Robert laughs when I get writers block, and cackles when I slam my IPad shut with frustration. He smiles when I just cant find the words to take the beautiful things I see in my head and convert them to the blinking dot on the page.

He is however the one to steps up and thumps his chest when somebody asks me what I’ve been working on. Robert likes to tell everyone that we are a “writer”, even tho I have never published anything.

I’m terrified when I think about how much work I have to do still, while he is off planning to write four novels a year.

Robert is a jerk, but I cant write without him. He protects me from having to worry abut that stuff myself, so I can just write…. everyday…. day after day. He worries about the things of the world, so I dont have too, so I can play in the field of ideas and bleed my ideas onto the page. Always right there over my shoulder, telling me I’m awful but whispering in my ear when I cant find the next word.

When I give up, he takes over and works on his projects. He tells me to rest, that my work for the day is done. He makes me a cup of tea, and finds me a blanket to crawl up under. Then and only then does he put his fingers to the keyboard. I rest in the sound of the keyboard clicking as he writes about things I dont have the heart to face. The demons slide out of his fingertips onto the page, without effort. Then when he puts the last period on the last sentence they stay on the page. I’m jealous of that gift, for he is my demon and not so easily silenced.

It’s a love hate relationship. He intimidates me… and i have to have him. In the morning when I’m drinking my coffee he tells me how many words I have to write that day. He looks over my shoulder and tells me to stop editing and finish something….. anything. He makes it ok for me create crappy first drafts because, he just wants them done. Then when he is distracted with a shinny bobble, I hide off in the corner poking at the squiggly red lines trying to make them go away.

I do not now, nor have I ever feared him. The only fear I have, is not that Robert doesn’t exist, but that at the end of the day, when all the ink drys. I might find that there never was a Jerry.