Over the Hill

I think blogs are a little done out, don't you? Blogs require words, real words with little to no emotion to sell them. I have to support my idea, or my opinion, or my totally illogical suggestion with nothing more than little black squilgglies on a white squiggly. And then you have to read it. Cause when you read it my squiggles go into your eye holes, and mix around with your brain, and they make you laugh, or make you cry, or make you think. If you don't read it, then my squiggles sit in cyberspace, sad and lonely, and crying where they would cry if squiggles had eye holes.

But blogs are on their way out, and vlogs are on their way in. They require much less work (thought, of course editing is still work, if you're not trained in it). We sit in front of a computer, and our face takes our squiggles, and bypasses the middle man: sending said squiggles right from our face, to your brain. There are eye holes involved, of course, and ear holes, but trust me: I'm a lot more charming, and funny, and interesting, when I've had time to write my thoughts down, and erase the ones that don't make sense, or make too much sense or remind me of a mackerel. Of course, you can write lines, and you can practice those lines until you've memorized them, and then you can deliver them with feeling. So much feeling that you'll win a thousand Academy Awards that you'll accept with glamorous speeches with plenty of tears and snot. But those words, and these squiggles aren't the same, and they'll never be. And I'm not Sissy Spacek.

So, I'm left with two choices: Become witty and charming, and beautiful(er), and not at all awkward, and make the camera love me and garner thousands of fans based on that. Or, and this is really the one I'm leaning towards, keep soldiering on with this blog because it's not in. It's not trendy or hip, or cool, and I'm way behind the curve, though I was ahead of the curve, and now I'm so far ahead, I'm behind again.

Words are who I am. The reason I sound so witty, and charming, and irresistible when I write (you know, or so I think), is because I love words. They roll around in my head, and I let them stew, and sometimes they sneak out when I'm dreaming or watching or kissing. Sometimes, they want to play with the other words so badly that I can hear them whispering to be set free. And when I do, they fall on the page and play and dance, and it's all worth it. It's worth all the effort that I took using the right side of my brain, and coming up with ideas, and writing and rewriting, and rewriting the rewriting. It's worth all the pain and sacrifice, and certainly the time. I write the story and finally the words are more than squiggles, they're a voice, they're a dream, they're a reality. So, let them sit up in their cafes, drinking their chai lattes, and vlogging about the world. I'll stick with my squiggles any day of the week.