I’ve noticed when writer’s block hits, and I ask those around me for subjects, there’s a universal response: “You should write about ___(me)”.
Crosffitters want to hear about the slow deaths endured at the Box, firefighters want to hear about the camaraderie and shenanigans. People like the lists, as long as they stay focused on their interests. And The Wife is always quick to point out that I’ve not adored her enough in e-print, lately.
Now, as opposed to being a rant about the raving self-absorption we all engage in, this diatribe is one in which I praise you for it. Here’s why:
It means we’re connecting.
When I write it and you read it and you mutter to yourself “hell yes, I hate how society rewards the Lindsay Lohans of this world, too!” or something like that, it is the very definition of success to me. Being the class clown is more than a pathetic cry for attention; we really want to amuse you, make you laugh at us and at yourselves and all the ridiculousness that comes with taking life too seriously. I imagine you somewhere, taking a moment away from looking up the ads soliciting parking lot encounters on Craigslist, and stumbling across this blog, this one right here, and chuckling for 10 seconds. Then you probably head to back to The Onion or porn or whatever, but in that moment? We connected, and that’s the name of this game.
Today a friend of mine turned 30, and when I visited her at the radio station, lottery tickets and coffee in hand, I told her of my dilemma about coming up with a good subject to write about. I was bouncing the idea around about how the doctor would likely confirm that I was pregnant at my appointment today, that it wasn’t the Guinness after all, when she says “you should write about turning 30. Like how much it sucked, or whatever.” I was thinking to myself, “hells bells, I’d love to turn 30 again.”
But, in retrospect, the pregnancy post really came across worse than it does right now, and I was back to considering her idea about birthdays, aging, bad hips, et al. And it struck me: she finds it funny enough when I throw my bullshit online that she’d like me to write about her turning 30. And I’m grateful for that.
So, in an effort to connect with her, too, here goes:
Turning 30 makes one feel really, really old, until it is viewed from the perspective of someone who is 36.
Now, back to my regularly scheduled writer’s block. We’ll talk some more about you, all of you, later.