Saturday, December 31, 2011

Leap Year the Movie item 2

I had a comment about Leap Year the Movie. She requested to see this post.

Friday, December 23, 2011


I had a serious handicap when I was young. I had foot-in-mouth disorder. I couldn't talk straight. People knew I was weird (rather than suspect it.) 

I never got any verbal criticism. I just got some puzzled looks. Facial expressions that expressed, "UH...what?"

I'm sure people did not appreciate what I had to say. They kept me around because they loved me. Or got stuck with me like college roommates.

I'm also sure they talked about me behind my back. I didn't care. I simply wished there was a hole under me I could fall into when I said something stupid.

The strange thing, well one of them, was that I could think perfectly good ideas and communications. There was just some twist between my brains and my mouth. I didn't speak gibberish. I was terribly inept at being a person. I presume.

What I said often sounded perfectly understandable to me. But others seemed not to get it. (It is a shame, too, that I blamed myself all these years when I could have decided that they were stupid conversationalists.)

An example would be my terror at calling people on the phone. Not only didn't I know what to say, I frequently couldn't say a word. Thank goodness there was no caller ID in those days. Actually I didn't hang up anonymously. I just never made phone calls until I was into my 40 and beyond. And then rarely.

Oh, teenage years don't count. I could talk to my friends and even boys on the phone back then. But teenaged girls are silly and I was cute so boys didn't care what I said. They called me. I wasn't allowed to call boys back in those days. (And we only had ONE phone per household. What could we have been thinking?)

I think part of the telephobia (is that a word?) stemmed from the first time I was forced to answer the phone. I can't remember how young I was but my parents thought it was high time I learned how to answer the phone. They told me, "Find out who it is and what they want."

Just then the phone rang and they said, "Now's your chance." They just as well could have been teaching me to fly in an airplane by pushing me out the door with no parachute.

I reluctantly crept over to the phone and said, "Hello. Who is this and what do you want?" Amen. I was a little girl for godsakes.

The caller hung up and a couple of seconds later the nextdoor neighbor came running over to tell us that our backyard was on fire.

It all went downhill from there. One of my worst other memories is when I called my cousin who was living at my grandma's. She said, "Hello." I said, "Is John there?" She said, "No. This is his grandmother, can I help you?" I said, "This is his cousin." There was a long pause and my Grandma said, "Sandy?"

That's bad enough but she told my mother and my mom told me my grandma got a weird call from me. I thought it was perfectly understandable. (It's my sense of humor, I guess. Stupid people still don't get my humor.)

I've gained enough self-confidence now to suppose that someone else might be to blame. 

So, partly I learned to take part in a conversation by observing people for about 40 years.

That and learning to write  I don't mean A B C D. I mean put my ideas, thoughts, feelings and poetry down on paper. I learned to converse with writing. Later I published a book for short short stories (humorous flash fiction) and a book of poetry.)

I turned to journals as my confidants and BFFs. I have 120 full journals and counting. (Someday I will sit outside with a nice bonfire, read each one and toss it into the flames..)

I turned to writing fiction too but didn't have as much luck as I had hoped.

I preferred writing because I could say important things on paper, and most importantly, I could cross out and correct what I'd written so I'd be pleased with what I'd said. And nobody would read it (besides me and I never did anyway. That's why I'll read them before I burn them. I'm curious.)

Oh, wait a minute. I did read the end of one journal one time. Ten years later I realized I was still ranting about the same things.

So I got a divorce.

I still write and do editing as I go along--cross out things and keep going. (And rewrite endlessly. Somebody stop me before I get hurt!)

But now I can talk.

Now I'm learning how to shut up.

And get over my phobia of listening.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011


"Pressure of speech is a tendency to speak rapidly and frenziedly, as if motivated by an urgency not apparent to the listener. The speech produced, sometimes called pressured speech, is difficult to interrupt and may be too fast or too tangential for the listener to understand; it is an example of cluttered speech. It can be unrelating, loud and without pauses." (Wikipedia)

Amen. I've got that. On occasion.

I'm sure there are thousands of people the world over who hate me for it. Especially when I try too hard to be witty.

I encounter conversationalists (?) now and then who can't stand being interrupted, or have to stop and think before they speak, or need to FINISH what they're saying. Oh, the ones who talk so ssssssss-lllllllllll-ooooooooooo-wwwwwwww. (Fred, you know who you are.) I find myself wanting to reach down their throats and pull the words out.

At least I hurry up and get to the damn point when I talk. (Don't I?) Plus I can carry on two or more conversations at the same time, listen and talk at the same time. Otherwise I confuse people and drive them nutz.

Oh,  I also try to set them straight regarding the truth or at least the facts. I challenge their opinions in a polite way for the most part, and assert myself in a way I just can't do in the rest of my life.

Another problem is the difference between the way women listen and men listen. A woman nods her head or in some cases shakes her head and makes little comments while listening. This means, "Go ahead, I'm listening."

Men consider that nodding indicates agreement, and comments are rude. Without some feedback you never know whether they're listening or not.

My brother is one example. He goes on and on about something (much like I do) and actually stops when I murmur and all the while he's getting angrier and angrier. It's like he can't talk when there are other people around.

His wife told me, in private, that our constant arguing was making her sick--literally--and I ought to wait til my brother was finished before saying anything.

Well,  here's an explanation:

1: I don't want to make people sick, but I think most people need to learn how to deal with things for themselves. .

2: I've reached the point in my life when I'm not going to allow myself to do things the way some MAN's behavior pressures me to. I'm not that codependent anymore. I'm old and single, what do I have to lose? I just can't understand why these mens' significant others put up with it.

3: AND my brother and I are NOT arguing. That's just the conversation style we used in our family. Genetic, so to speak. We talk a lot, talk fast, debate everything, and do all that LOUD.

I've adapted that to a form of "preaching"

I've told my friends that if they want to talk to me they're going to have to learn to interrupt and/or talk over me. I don't mind. It's just my conversation "style." They don't have to follow my example but it helps. They don't have to change their conversation style, just bear with it for awhile if they'd like to be part of my conversation. My talk isn't aggressive; theirs should be. (I don't see why this is different than the way my brother talks but it just is.)

I have so many thoughts and ideas that I just express them fast enough. (And evidently people don't consider trivia relevant to everyday life.) At least I do to add now, "I probably told you this already but..." and the more polite "Sorry to change the subject..." and plunge forward.

I wish I could write as fast as I talk. And as much. I'd have a 20-volume. memoir published by now.

This is my third blog entry today. About the same subject. Be warned: I also have bouts of hypergraphia.



 Can you be a writer if no one reads you?

Are you a writer if you're not published?

Is a blog considered writing? Is it considered published? Does anyone ever read it?

I just can't bring myself to keep a diary, journal or dream log in my various computer programs/files. For one thing the take up too much storage on my computer memory banks. And who cares? If no one reads them including me and  they aren't published just hidden away, What a waste of time. (Or someone can switch on my computer and see my private entries.)

At least when I write in actual journals like the 12-dollar plastic hardcovers from WalMart, it's serious & beneficial therapy. I could dump it and forget it. Like flushing the....well, you get it.

I like the new feature that tells you your stats: how many hits you're getting on your blogspot and individual blog entries. I don't know why I feel joyful that 17 people went to my blog today and saw one of the entries. (Alas, looking is not the same as reading.) Why do I thrill to see that 17 people found me in a sea of personal essays cconsidering there are about a gazillion people googling on the worldwide web this very minute. It's comparable to the array of radio-telescopes listening for a little noise in a vast universe. LOL

When you put something out here in cyberspace it's "published". It even has an implied copyright (so people who steal your stuff are supposed to give you credit even if in teeny-weeny letters at the bottom.)

So what's this got to do with anything?

I'll get to the point someday if I can figure out what it is and how to write it.

Thanks for stopping by.


I receive a wonderful flow of thoughts in the morning so today I'm going to attempt to capture them in writing for your viewing pleasure.

I often break into hypergraphia (writing lengthy treatises exceedingly fast and hodge-podge, seemingly forever.) I used to write on paper in journals. I have over 120 of them. They go on and on about my thoughts, my feelings, my gripes, my opinions, and godknowswhatelse. It doesn't matter much because no one is ever going to read my journals not even me.

Someday when I feel death coming on I'm going to take them out in the backyard and have one sonofabitch bonfire. It won't matter because there is absolutely no culture or history or current events in any of them. I suspect some of the essays are boring writing about a boring life. I'm afraid the rest reveal various levels of insanity. 

My handwriting is shot to hell at my age so I'm determined to capture my ideas on a computer. That doesn't serve me as well since handwriting was an autonomic behavior for me. Thoughts went directly from my brain to paper via fingers. Fingers aren't as reliable as they used to be.

I'm also hindered by my compulsion to tell the truth and be accurate. And an attempt to manipulate others into being that way too.

On a computer I actually have to think about what I'm writing. I can't whiz along making a mess of it. Typos and misspellings are automatic now instead of my thought-to-paper process. I was able to do things in writing that I just can't do on a computer. Like spell bad with disaster grammar and scribbling over words and continue to write long passages non-stop (much the way I think. And talk. (That's another story.)

Thanks to a career in clerical work/typist my editing and correcting is built into my writing. My fingers (besides hitting a lot of wrong keys) automatically hits the backup-delete button. I suspect, too, my career influenced me by not having to think about what I was typing. 

There's a vast difference between typing someone else's words and writing your own stuff creatively.

I also edit as I write but that's like throwing your car into reverse every yard or two.  You get there eventually but the journey is hell. By the time I get my typing corrected and edited I've lost my train of thought.

In fact, this wasn't what I wanted to write about at all.

O heck it's lunch time I better go eat breakfist. By.
PS: Writing in a journal is a waste of words, ideas, writing and time. You're not really a writer unless someone reads you. Except journaling for therapy--in that case it serves well. And cheaper than a $120 therapy session.) If no one ever reads it you might as well tear it up and toss it in the trash, right? Writing a blog you have a choice--click on the publish button or use the delete key. At least when you write a blog someone out of 2-billion people with computers might stumble on it and actually read it--maybe even like it.