There are things in life that I have always disliked. The list isn’t really that long, but I wish I could ignore it since I seem to waste a quantity of time consumed in angry thought over that measly portion of nuisance. You probably can empathize with my situation. Maybe not. For many years I have observed people who are of a creative nature, and found that most are haunted by tics of this sort. Since you are reading this essay, perhaps you also are a club member. If you don’t relate to the concept, then there is very little sense in continuing to read. You will only be confused by what I have to say…and you will become annoyed that I cluttered your screen with inconsequential drivel. Perhaps, however, the opening sentences fit themselves so precisely into a piece of your own personal agony that you must read on. In just these few words, we have already bonded.
In generic terms, I have always been a writer. It’s probably because I spent a lot of time alone as a child. My head was full of narrative before I even knew how to form letters. The stories were happy and I loved to fold myself inside of them. It was a good and comforting place to be. The only other living thing that heard those stories was my collie, King. Actually, there was a King I and a King II. About the time that King II came to live with us, I found myself in first grade, my tongue struggling beside small fingers to control the fat, slippery and always-too-dull pencil. (Wow! I’ve just had one of those “search your childhood for healing” moments. The first thing that I remember viewing with true contempt was that pencil!! Well, my mother’s version of fried liver is in there somewhere too… but that’s a different story.)
 Forming letters led to word formation; I discovered joy in capturing the diverse words that were always tumbling around in my head and linking them together on paper like the cars in a train. As an adult, I see the value in the oral tradition… but at age six, I was tired of repeating those stories to a dog! With the skill of writing, I felt like the Super Bowl ring was on my hand and I was on my way to DisneyWorld!
(Okay, I admit that there was no Super Bowl that year…and I have (sadly) never been to DisneyWorld to know if it even exists. Possibly it’s another one of those prefabrications like man walking on the moon. Yes, I’ve seen friends in pictures with Mickey…but who can you really trust these days?)
Oops, I see that I have surpassed my assigned word count. Ah, yes… the word assigned was my tic trigger of the week! It was my motivation…the impelling force that drove me to the keyboard. It seems that this missive must be continued… if, of course, it is not found angrily stuffed into the editor’s Trash... thoughts left in digital darkness never to be shared. A sad plight indeed.
One last note…I hate pencils. They are only used when I know I might have to erase. Even then, scribbling over errors made with gel ink is more desirable. There is still, however, a thread of continuity in my task of writing. Since I have yet to master the “correct” method of keyboarding, my tongue continues to frequently assist the four digits that struggle to form thoughts into words on the screen.
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