I’ve thought a lot about writing in the past couple months — what to say, how to say it. Can I be cheeky when life is just shit? There are kids dying in Afghanistan, what’s a little knee issue, for god sake?
For two decades, writing’s been the thing, the way. It started with a diary that I didn’t want to lock, because I wanted it to be read. I wrote for money too — everything from incontinence issues for a home health care magazine to big splashy front cover articles of a leading mag. I learned to move writing from Me writing to You writing. Blogging is the former: 3 Garzas & La Gringa is Me writing, take it or not.
Somewhere in between drug hazes, physical therapy rants and small kidlet updates of the past two months, I realized, it must suck to be a reader right now. There’s really not much here.here unless you’re me. And then, it’s everything. It’s my diary that I intentionally left unlocked.
So there you have it. Me not you. And so I go onto my next post, narcissistic on-demand.
Side Gigs
