Thursday, August 23, 2012

Sing at the Table, Dance on the Bed

I read that the writer should always give the reader something of value. Wow. The pressure. Looking back at my essays I have to question what exactly it is that I am giving you. I’d like to say that I’ve lightened your heart, made you smile, caused you to reflect, to consider, to think. But, honestly, I may have just made you scratch your head in confusion or spit your coffee through your teeth. I think I’m good with that.

I know that when I get in my now-I-know-why-writers-drink mode, I give you stories that leave my computer keys soaked with tears. You should know that I cannot even see the words well enough through my swollen eyes to know if those stories need an adjective here, an adverb there before I click to post. I am not certain you understand, though, the significance of writing these stories. I know that you understand what it means to read them, but do you know that when I finish one of these essays I feel as if someone has taken a very blunt stick to my chest and ripped until the insides lay exposed in their entirety at my feet? As painful as these stories are, though, I do enjoy sharing them with you. They are my therapy. They are my way of facing down my past, of owning up to who I am, and coming to terms with the fact that my experiences never leave me, that they only learn to sit quietly and behave until I tell them that they may come out and play. I know that when I write like this I cause you pause to think and consider and reflect. I hope that I also encourage you to be thankful for what you have in your life, to see others as they are without judgment, and to give, to give of your heart and of your time and of your soul.

Then there are the essays on my dreams. Do you really need to know about those? Why do I even share? My fear as I write is that you will think me weird. Perhaps, I think to myself, it doesn’t take one of these essays for you to think THAT. But, really, who tells everybody they know their most personal nighttime stories? Who DOES that? My fear, too, is that one of you has mad skills in interpreting these stories and will know the true me even better than I know the true me and will forget or neglect or just choose to never inform me of what that true me is and that it will be some incredibly personal, embarrassing thing that reveals a bit more than perhaps I should ever have revealed, but did so not even knowing and now it’s just far too late because everybody has read it and had their way with it. Then I question what dreams are exactly. Are they simply a rehashing of the day’s events, are they some deeply symbolic sort of wish fulfillment, or might they have some strange metaphysical predictive nature to them? Very possibly, at least to me, they represent a little of each. I might, I just decided, end this paragraph now. I feel I am not helping my case and am wondering what the “something of value” is that I am contributing with this one.

And, oh good Lord, the stories on panties and bras and cleavage and wild, raucous afternoon romps! I’d like to think these stories add value to your life by providing a breather from your daily doldrums, by bringing a conservative thrill, a fun and frilly dance on the slightly inappropriate side. But as one friend suggested, in a very snarky, sarcastic tongue, might I add, perhaps I am doing nothing more than “contributing to the well-being of society by flashing a bit of breast.” What?! That’s a BAD thing?!

Do I have to be serious ALL the time? Do I have to be reflective, moving, pensive, every minute I sit at the keyboard? Can’t I just sometimes let loose and verbally party on the frat house roof? Can’t I blow a few bubbles, sing at the table, dance on the bed? Can’t I get silly and playful with my words?

I am going back to school right now. You know this. I am forced to write once again in my serious voice. I am using verbs that mean business, verbs that think they are above the others, verbs that look down their noses at fling and sparkle and shimmy. I am using verbs like posit and concur and operationalize. I am not much a fan of writing in my all dressed up, suit and tie voice. I much more enjoy dancing across the screen in boas and pearls, flitting across the page blowing kisses and flinging seductive smiles. Can’t I just do that? Can’t I please? Tell me it makes you happy. Tell me it makes you laugh and smile and forget all that is wrong in your life. Tell me that I am adding value to your life. Tell that I am adding value to your day just by being the stinking sexy, happy, goofy girl that I am.


  1. You certainly add value to my give me hope that someday, I to, will be dancing on my bed......

  2. Some day? What's the matter with today? : )

  3. They are my therapy. They are my way of facing down my past, of owning up to who I am, and coming to terms with the fact that my experiences never leave me, that they only learn to sit quietly and behave until I tell them that they may come out and play.Yes,yes,yes,yes,yesyesyesyesyes.

  4. Smiles, Lisa. From one writer to another.