How to start a thing:
(Specifically, this thing.)
Just. Start. Typing.
I've known I needed to write again for a good long while now. I pay actual money for a place to have a blog, and I'm not doing anything with it. I think the biggest obstacle so far, has been where to start. How the hell am I supposed to package this? I keep being told by invisible forces of society that I'm supposed to pick A thing to be good at, and stick to that. “That's how we keep the packaging tidy! It's all about the marketing, really. You shouldn't argue with the marketing experts.” What if I don't want to be just one thing? What if I actually, physically and mentally just can’t? What if I'm accidentally (or very much on purpose) good at a whole buncha stuff, and want to keep doing it all because I was taught not to be wasteful? Here come the eye rolls: “What a burden it must be to have been gifted so many talents!” HahaHA! It's called ADHD, y'all. On a scale of one to ten, I'm a solid “How the fuck is she even functioning?” It’s a hell of a ride. Get yourself strapped in and try to keep up.
Just like I can't pick one thing to do until I die (I don't know how anybody does that without being bored to actual death), I'm not gonna be able to pick a singular topic to talk about here just for the sake of having a blog about a specific thing. I've already derailed 100 times. I tried for 6 months to write a story about “The Little Red Bag” I meant to build for my brother, but wound up keeping it to carry at my nephew's wedding. And then the State Fair. It's a great bag. It used to be a cow. Now it’s something else. That's pretty much the story. Nobody wants to hear, “I gave myself a gnarly set of blisters punching all these dadburned holes!” That cow was an asshole and I was glad he died by the time I finished all 3 bags I made out of him. Anybody wanna know about the time I ran a rotary blade through my middle finger into the bone? Nope. “Keep your tools sharp, kids, and always make sure the safety’s off!” I'm probably not gonna be too chatty about silversmithing either; there's only so many ways to say “Fire makes metal hot and I smash it with a hammer.” “Next, rinse your steel shot, then you’re gonna wanna take that still-dripping, mesh strainer and hang it directly over that electrical outlet next to the sink.” Don't be surprised if one day I want to talk about rocks though, because those stay pretty fascinating to me. As far as my lapidary work, it's a snooze-fest. “When you put the rock on the grinder, it grinds away the rock...” It was right there in the name the whole time. “It will continue its job with little-to-no concern about your knuckle meat, nor whether or not you’d prefer to still have it attached.”
“So, what exactly is it that you'd like to write about, Shea?”
THE REST OF THE THINGS!
We're gonna be talkin' about some cops and robbers, fo sho. Seems to be a recurring theme since we’ve moved to Little Rock. Who Knew!? (Everybody, Shea. Literally, every-goddamn-body in America. Hindsight and whatnot.) I've definitely got a personal opinion about the criminal “justice” system in Arkansas, and I've got more to say about their medical marijuana pilferage. The ONE point I'm letting them keep for now is that they got the cannabis thing implemented faster than Texas did, which is one of the reasons I moved here. The fact that Okla-goddamn-homa out-paced botha y'all on the whole sitch is gonna get at least one middle-finger of a paragraph, but again, that’s for later.
I've learned more about Complex PTSD in the past few months than I have in the 30+ years it's been nesting in this fuzzy little head - another “gift” I’m learning to process - mine’s got more layers than the British Bake Off tent during pastry week. What triggered this new understanding? It wasn’t a handshake from Paul Hollywood.
You probably don't realize how many white, windowless, unmarked vans drive around your city. There's a LOT, y'all. It's hella bothersome to realize the same van you know drove out of its way to assault you, followed by its occupants jumping out and robbing you, is allowed to just casually park across the street from your house on a daily basis. It’s been pretty stressful and I’m not all the way ready to talk about it more than that yet, because that dug up a whole fresh layer of my sophomore year when those assholes tried to run me over with a truck (yes, I still remember their names, in case y'all wondered how long I'll hold a grudge), and topped it off with a very unhealthy reminder (from an entirely different chapter, early 20s) that methamphetamines and white supremacy go hand-in-hand, especially when allowed to run the fuck amok unchecked. Once you've had the dog shit beat out of you by one of those motherfuckers, it's RILL goddamn hard to un-lump them all together. Those “Good ol’ Boy” systems. The cops and the criminals are running the same goddamn playbook. There’s plenty more where that came from, but it's quite a bit chewier to workshop the punchlines on that kinda shit. Moving on.
“Good writers are only good writers when they do it with consistency. Pick a structure: Daily, Weekly, Monthly – then stick with that. Do it the same way every time or nobody will love you anymore, and you'll die alone after your vagina falls off.” It's hard enough managing my own brain, but now I gotta do it the way somebody else says is the best way because the rules they made up are better than mine because... WHY? Hell, that’s the best way to make sure I NEVER get it done. I don’t even play well by my own set of rules, much less someone else’s.
I've been trying to figure out the thing to do that won't break my body every damn day. I trained dogs until it damn near broke my back, and had to pick a different thing to do. Turns out, swinging a hammer all day, be it at a hide or a piece of metal, wasn't the easiest physical route to take either. At least I'm used to doing dumb things with my body. Now I've got arthritis and do dumb shit with sharp things and fire. It's dangerous no matter what I’m doing. Somewhere along the line, I forgot that typing words to make them be on the outside of my dumb, exhausted meat-packaging was not only super helpful for my own mental health, some of you nut-bags out there actually still enjoy reading it, and typing rarely gives me blisters or makes me bleed. I appreciate each and every single one of you who reminded me of that, and that there are, indeed, still beautiful humans among us.
I really just needed to give myself a starting point, and this is where we landed, folks. Today's topic is how you should fully expect me to never be able to stay on any given topic. Welcome to the adventure!
Go ahead and get ready for the day I get on a roll about pockets (POCKETS!), and don't be shocked when that rolls us into Victorian architecture or the hazards of bicycling on a cobblestone street. Where this goes is gonna be just as much a surprise for me as it is for anybody else, so let's have some fun with it, shall we?