A trip to the Confessional

I have an awesome idea for a post today… a baring of the soul. A laying out of one of the deepest, darkest secrets that I carry.

A trip to the Confessional, if you will.

But I’ve decided that a post of such a nature violates that unwritten society/friendship/spousal rules of the things you can post, and the things you don’t. Because you don’t want to upset/disturb those around you with the stench of your dirty laundry.

What I have decided upon is to ask a favor of you, dear reader.

Believe it or not, YOU play a big part in what it is that I do.

I thrive on the comments that I receive about this blog. It matters not whether they are left here, or posted on Facebook or sent to me privately.

I love them all.

It’s not the ego stroke that I’m after. Don’t get me wrong. I never tire of hearing that I’m a great writer. But those of you who spell out exactly what you love about the posts or those of you that share them with your friends really take me to the next level and make me think more seriously about full-time writing.

I check the stats on this blog every day. It tells me how many visitors and where they came from. (For some mysterious reason, I get a lot of views from South America. Talk about WTF. How do they even know about this?)
Views and visitors make me happy. Comments and messages take me a little closer to Heaven.

So as I climb up on your Santa’s lap, and you ask me what I want for Christmas, I will ask this of you:

Tell me what your favorite post is and why.

Is it the fiction? The Autobiography? The “Faction?”

What is that you love most about the blog? Tell me, and I promise you more of what you love.

And I, in return, promise not to be a selfish lover. I will return the favor by providing you more of what you want. I may even create a special post, just for the best comments to be shared with the commenter. At that point, we together can decide if it should make its way to this electronic page.

Or should we, as they say, leave it in the confessional…

My god, I AM Hank Moody…

I am a daydreamer.  Unrepently so.  The bastard child of Walter Mitty and Hunter Thompson.  Often my flights of fancy take my into the characters of the TV shows that I watch…

But the character I find myself most wishing to be is Hank Moody from Californication.

For the unwashed among you who have never seen it, Hank is a writer who doesn’t write…much.  He favors black t-shirts and jeans, drives a older (yet inarguably cool) car with one operating headlight, has addiction issues (cigarettes, booze, women), a roller coaster relationship with his SO and offspring.

I sooo want to be him, in my day dreams at least.

For the few regular readers of this delightful virtual tome, you’ve come to realize that this blog is part fiction, part “fact-ion”  and part confessional.  Today’s offering would fall into that last part.

And writing is something I think about multiple times every. single. day.

But the Muse, fickle wench that she is, is apparently taking an extended holiday in Aruba, frolicking in the surf with Richard Branson and only occasionally stopping to turn, laugh at me and flip me the bird.

And that is one of the curses of we word-loving folk.  Passionate desire to write and only drips from the faucet.

But here I sit at the keyboard, still enjoying the last whiff of my most recent American Spirit cigarette, seeing the empties from last night in the recycle bin, and black t-shirt firmly in place.

Later, I will throw the two monkeys that I am half-responsible for creating into my ’99 Cadillac (with one working headlight) to drop them off at school for another day of edumacation (after a night of tears and raised voices among the entire family unit) and suddenly I realize that

my god, I AM Hank Moody.

And you know what, it ain’t that great.