I need to write. I mean, I really need to write. Every time I open up the word program on the computer, my mind leaves my body and evaporates into the spring air.
I’m definitely old enough to have a wealth of experiences to relate. My life has certainly not been dull. I’ve worked enough interesting jobs that anecdotes should be running out of my ears. My God – what the fuck is wrong with me?
Who couldn’t come up with some sort of interesting shit after working as a “top 40” disc jockey during the mid to late 1960’s – the most classic era of rock music ever? How about my tenure as a public relations manager for three upstate New York Chambers of Commerce; or 20 years in restaurant management; or 10 more years in route sales?
Sure, I did write a memoir recounting my 2 years as an over-the-road truck driver. That was a no-brainer. Someday it may even be published. I contacted my agent a few weeks ago, and he promised to check on its progress. I’m still waiting on a reply.
Maybe I should try a novel – one that thinly disguises actual events. “All names have been changed to protect the author from litigation and/or personal injury.” My protagonist could be a body-building general manager whose first love, other than trying to screw every waitress on the payroll, was beating customers to a pulp.
Or another management type who goes into business with the author then snorts them out of business by paying for his nose candy from the restaurant’s cash register.
How about the building contractor who agrees to add onto the author’s house, then leaves the job 2/3 completed and declares bankruptcy?
All are decent ideas which deserve some serious thought.
For now, though, I just need to come up with another post for this fucking journal.