I'd like to give a warm blogger's welcome -- oh, Lord, that sounds awful, like reheated, too thick, orangey cheese soup served over a chunk of brown bread, the pope's nose.
Let me try again.
Do you remember the many pleas made here and elsewhere on behalf of my friend Joyce and her husband Billy? No? Maybe? Well, click HERE to refresh your memory.
Billy died, of course, which is what most people with Stage 4 lung cancer do, and Joyce has and will run the gamut of emotions in her grief, as most widows do.
She's full of stories. They're just bubbling inside of her, trying to get out.
So she's started a blog. She's called it: life, from childhood to adulthood.
Joyce is shy and sees herself as the product of an accumulation of bad, evil, and unlucky things. It is our job, Dear Readership, to show her a world of welcoming, to encourage her voice, and to respond to what she says -- or she might give up.
Actually, Friends, she will try to cut and run, write and delete, start and then declare it a failure. So tell her about the day you realized that you had actually written a hundred posts, that writing regularly filled a void, and introduced you to people you'd otherwise never have met. Tell her about the day you realized you had a voice, and that it mattered.
Just by virtue of having cats, and cute ones, at that, she's gonna have a certain following. Dobby's ears are already rotating.
I've been learning a lot about writing lately and at the most unlikely of places -- a website for writers. I already have a stalker there, a read idjit who calls himself -- get this! -- "amicus." I'd laugh out loud but my throat is raw. It's a slice of real life -- some people are mean, some stupid, some open-hearted, some closed. There's a whole lot of failed genius seeking comfort. And vanity? And vanity press ads? Oy!
I'm having a great time.
Which is what I wish for Ms. Joyce Thang over there at life, from childhood to adulthood. I joke about wanting her to write, not so much about the things that have happened in that lifetime, but what and whom she's seen, why she loves old cars, what is it about the thick blood of family?
I joke because if she tells her story -- life, from childhood to adulthood -- I am not sure we could take it. So yes, may it all come out, but gently, layered between stories of the hills, revival tales, and character studies. But it must come out, I imagine. All of the hurt done to her needs its telling, too.
So make her not scared, not nervous -- but welcome. She finally has a place all her own...
Let me try again.
Do you remember the many pleas made here and elsewhere on behalf of my friend Joyce and her husband Billy? No? Maybe? Well, click HERE to refresh your memory.
Billy died, of course, which is what most people with Stage 4 lung cancer do, and Joyce has and will run the gamut of emotions in her grief, as most widows do.
She's full of stories. They're just bubbling inside of her, trying to get out.
So she's started a blog. She's called it: life, from childhood to adulthood.
Joyce is shy and sees herself as the product of an accumulation of bad, evil, and unlucky things. It is our job, Dear Readership, to show her a world of welcoming, to encourage her voice, and to respond to what she says -- or she might give up.
Actually, Friends, she will try to cut and run, write and delete, start and then declare it a failure. So tell her about the day you realized that you had actually written a hundred posts, that writing regularly filled a void, and introduced you to people you'd otherwise never have met. Tell her about the day you realized you had a voice, and that it mattered.
Just by virtue of having cats, and cute ones, at that, she's gonna have a certain following. Dobby's ears are already rotating.
I've been learning a lot about writing lately and at the most unlikely of places -- a website for writers. I already have a stalker there, a read idjit who calls himself -- get this! -- "amicus." I'd laugh out loud but my throat is raw. It's a slice of real life -- some people are mean, some stupid, some open-hearted, some closed. There's a whole lot of failed genius seeking comfort. And vanity? And vanity press ads? Oy!
I'm having a great time.
Which is what I wish for Ms. Joyce Thang over there at life, from childhood to adulthood. I joke about wanting her to write, not so much about the things that have happened in that lifetime, but what and whom she's seen, why she loves old cars, what is it about the thick blood of family?
I joke because if she tells her story -- life, from childhood to adulthood -- I am not sure we could take it. So yes, may it all come out, but gently, layered between stories of the hills, revival tales, and character studies. But it must come out, I imagine. All of the hurt done to her needs its telling, too.
So make her not scared, not nervous -- but welcome. She finally has a place all her own...
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| from Cindy Sheehan's Soapbox |
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