So I’ve decided to write a book. It feels like a good fit for me, and, given how well I’ve upheld my commitment to blogging, I think it’s an obvious next step. Just kidding. On the blogging.
As far as the book is concerned, I’m dead serious. I was out to dinner with a friend a few weeks ago and he remarked (innocuously enough for us to continue our lovely meal) that I talk… quite a lot. Without skipping a beat I replied, “I just have so much to say.” I haven’t said more meaningful words in a while. And, as I continued to eat my Caesar salad and talk with my mouth full, I found myself almost giddy with the truth. I really do have a lot to say. Whatever it is it may not be particularly profound (see my post on cheese), but I can’t leave it stewing in my head. So, if you’re reading this, you’ve got a book coming your way. Spread the word (actually, please don’t in the likely event I don’t ever finish it). Furthermore, given my current rate of WMP, my masterpiece should be done around 2074 – so def don’t hold your breath.
Anyways, the night after my Caesar salad-adjacent epiphany, I banged out 20 slightly wine-flavored rambling pages. I’ll call them my book’s “Introduction,” which covers the first eighteen-ish years of my life. Yes, the book is about my life. Yes, I’ll be attempting to impart some wisdom I have gleaned from my (recently) long 31 years. Will I win a Pulitzer for exceptional writing and groundbreaking content? No. Will each page drip with the annoying yet addictive sarcasm found on my blog? Probably – and probably while my keyboard literally drips with pinot noir.
On that note, nighttime seems to be the only time I write with any continuity, which is both a blessing and a curse. Either way, whatever I’ve written requires such extensive editing the following day I’d probably be better off shouting my thoughts to Siri and having her half-deaf ass write it down.
I know, I know. What could I possibly have contained in my brain that is of any interest or use to anyone? And, furthermore, even if my head does contain useful information, why would anyone be inclined to pay for such wisdom? Insert shruggy-purply-lady emoji here and a big IDK. Nor do I care. Like I said, I just have so much to say and I’m pretty sure if I write it with enough sarcasm it will be a best seller. Or not. In which case I’ll fall back on my burgeoning career as a wedding poet and hope for the best.
I’m posting about this today in particular for a reason. Earlier this afternoon, as I accompanied a young friend to her first Youth Pride event since coming out, I was reminded of her father’s response to her declaration that she is gay. We weren’t sure what his initial reaction would be to her news, but ultimately his response was perfect and went something like this:
Dad enters room to anxious looks from his wife and daughter.
“Dad, I’m gay.”
“Cool, I’m glad you told me.”
“Really?”
“Just be happy, that’s all I care about.”
Dad leaves room with a wave to head to Soul Cycle, END SCENE.
Now, you kind of have to know her dad to understand fully how funny/fitting and full of love his response was, and now that I think about it I’m not sure what we (her mom and I) expected him to say. But, his words “just be happy…” continue to creep into my mind as I navigate life in the wake of a series of unfortunate events. I mean, that’s what it’s all about, right? Being happy?
Writing makes me happy. Generally, I’m doing okay – ups and downs happiness-wise trying to get some normalcy back in my day-to-day. But, maybe I could be happy, like exist happily all the time, if I wrote more. So here I am, happy as a clam writing about writing a book. Go figure. Pinot noir to my right, a tiara from Youth Pride to my left* and nothing to lose. Except sleep. Speaking of which… peace out cub scouts and TAKE PRIDE – all we need is love, after all…
and happiness.
*if you reread that to the tune of Fins – by His Royal Highness, the Duke of Margaritaville – you get a free copy of my book when it’s published in 348943948394 years.
The Dog Hair Diaries 