There’s something about
the spotlight. I looked in
ward and wondered if I
was interesting. Why
should anyone know who
I am? All the while, I kept
formulating a person. It
was really me. Then I
wondered harder about
why anyone would care.
I guess the point is that
I did. I wanted to be the
best at something. Some
thing that came with a spot
light, that came with accolades.
I got cocky with musical instruments,
occasional applause and compliments
were key. The lights of the football
stadium on me. But I knew I’d never
be that good. Then I tried pacing
stages, memorizing personae, being
those other people. I’d been laughed
at for years, but being laughed at on
stage. It was heroin. Cigarettes. I
don’t know. But I was not good enough.
And it requires a certain predetermined
stature, most often. I have written since
I was seven years old, maybe before that,
because I loved books, I disappeared into
them. At nearly 30, I decided that is what
I do. And, yes, I felt this is one thing I
can do well. Good enough. It’s by my own
measure, which is all that counts. The spot
lights are gone. But I keep having these
conversations with books, with inanimate
objects. I keep trying to make them laugh.
