I couldn’t sleep last night. I’d love to say I couldn’t sleep because of something outside myself, but that wasn’t the case. I couldn’t sleep because of a surfeit of words. By my own choice, I’m not expressing myself and it’s starting to keep me up at night. The truth is, it’s time to be what I always said I wanted to be and I’m both terrified and exhilarated.
I’ve been a published writer for years. I’ve had editorials published in a variety of publications, including the deeply missed and mourned Rocky Mountain News. I’ve edited a couple of newsletters. And, of course, there was that twenty years of technical writing for various companies in the Denver area. In the end, though, I always wanted to really be a writer. Somebody who gets up in the morning, dusts off the keyboard, and spits words onto a page for the outside world to judge and evaluate. In the 21st century, anyone has the ability to do this, thanks to the blessing and curse of blogs. As anyone with access to the internet is aware, there are a million zillion blogs out there, so mine has the chance to slip in and go blissfully unnoticed. But I will once again be a published writer, with something I can point to and say, “Yes, of course, I’m writing.”
Ah, but therein lies the rub. To be a writer, I have to keep writing. Writing is damned hard work, frankly. I’d rather sit around and think about it than do it, especially because at some point I will tell somebody I’m doing it and they will expect me to keep doing it. I don’t know if I can promise that. I can try, though, because if I don’t start spitting some of these words out, I may never sleep again.
So what’s tweaking me today? Current news stories: David Stone, Sr. and David Stone, Jr. were arrested as part of a sweep of an America militia group preparing to wage war on the American government. The news programs keep running a sound bite of David Stone, Jr.’s mother, Donna Stone, weeping over his arrest because he was caught up in his father’s activities. As I listen to her, I hear a mother willing to allow her ex-husband and son be responsible for their actions but still so sad that her son has messed up his life. I know that feeling; I’m a mother with a son who’s made some costly mistakes and I am so, so sorry. I can’t do anything for him except love him and I do. Always and no matter what. I hope he knows that.
I also have a daughter. Same thing; I love her totally, always and no matter what. She and her husband are struggling to have a child, despite having been married less than a year. She may not be able to have a baby if they don’t hurry. They should have had more time, damn it. I spent my younger days trying not to get pregnant, with two notable failures. I volunteer at Bridgeway, a home for pregnant teens. Life is rarely fair, but I wish it was treating my kids better. So does Donna Stone.
And then there is the case of Phoebe Prince, a fifteen-year-old girl driven to suicide by her classmates at South Hadley High School in Massachusetts. There are no crueler people in the world than teenagers, especially teenage girls. I am glad to see that some of her torturers will stand trial for what they did; this kind and level of cruelty is intolerable. My question is, why didn’t some of the teachers step up for her? Were they so intimidated by the same children that they couldn’t defend her? Or is this kind of mistreatment so rampant in high schools that they just didn’t notice?
The suicide bombings in Moscow are also immensely disturbing, particularly because women were the bombers. That is a discussion for another day, I’m afraid. Today, suffice to say my heart and prayers go out to the people of Moscow and Russia. They didn’t deserve this. To terrorists everywhere, you are killing people who cannot make a difference to your cause, who don’t deserve to pay the consequences of your rage, and whose deaths will not win you sympathy from your government or the world at large. Find some other way to express yourselves.
That’s today’s thoughts. Have the best day possible and treat the people around you well. Please.