It's All About Me

Sometimes I can be so full of myself. Despite present appearances to the contrary, this isn't one of those times. I posted this picture and wrote the title simply because I can't decide what I should write about next. I'm hoping that if I just sit here and type random, nonsensical words and thoughts, some vaguely meaningful ideas will eventually emerge.
Oh well, since I'm on the topic of me me me, I'll mention to you, oh my faithful, fanatical followers, that I'm on a brief sabbatical from the bookstore where I've been working for lo-these-many-years. I'll be writing a one-woman play about none other than yours truly. Yes, it's true, I'm going to add yet another self-important, self-centred vanity piece to the great canon of one person plays, about people real and fictional, great and small. Although I'm real enough, I can say without a moment's hesitation or a hint of hubris that I also belong in the "small" people category. (If I said "little people," it would suggest I'm some sort of an otherworldly spirit. That would be nice, but not true.)
Anyway, who the hell wants to sit and listen to some obscure, unknown actor/writer go on for 75 minutes about their not-so-interesting life? But I'm doing it anyway. If I can't get hired to perform on stage, or in a movie, or even in a commercial for goddess' sake, then I'll write my own damn play. I suspect that that's probably how a lot of those things got written in the first place. At least I hope so. I hate to think I'm the only failed-but-not-dead-yet-actor who's gone that route.
So why am I telling you this? Because if I announce my plans to my legion of followers it'll force me to work through whatever ennui, writer's block, laziness or any other manifestations of page fright that will no doubt assail me in the following weeks. After all, I don't want to make a public fool of myself, which may very well be happening right now, because I really am blathering on about nothing but me me me and what I want to do.
I know for sure I'm not alone in my need to tell my story. That's part of the reason I have this little web of mine. Every person who has lived a little while or a great long time has many stories, and most people would like to tell some of them in one way or another. Even the most seemingly uneventful lives can be transcribed into good stories if they are expressed with conviction and a modicum of passion. I've listened, completely rapt, to friends and strangers, who neither write nor act, describe some of their fascinating experiences. They don't consider themselves storytellers, but when they talk about their experiences so sincerely, they most surely are storytellers. And then there are humble, supposedly ordinary people, not normally given to talking about themselves, who have shared small moments of their lives with me. If I listen well enough, I always learn something. I like to think I've helped a person just by allowing him or her to be heard.
We all want to be heard and seen; not necessarily in a centre-stage, under-the-spotlight kind of way, but in a way that acknowledges our existence, and that we matter.
Good goddess, this entry really is a blathering blurb, because I've been writing for a while now and still haven't figured out what my point is. Hmm ... So what have I got so far? I've 1) declared my intention to write a one-woman show in the next couple of months, and 2) I've waxed enthusiastic about how everyone has stories, and 3) I've made brief mention of the art of listening. And it truly is an art. In fact, I find it more difficult to do well than telling stories. Having said that, I realize now that I've said all that I want to say right now, even though it didn't make a complete or cohesive narrative in this rambling, what-the-hell-am-I-going-to-write-about-today discussion.
Enough said. I'm going to go outside and listen to birds singing and trees rustling in the wind. Maybe if I listen hard enough, I'll understand what they're saying. But even I don't, I'll listen anyway.
- G. P.