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Who knew? Memories up to 30 years ago have become raw material for blog entries. In a way I am glad. Instead of merely taking up space in my cranium, these bits of my life can be transformed from white elephants into composition. More astounding – somebody out there finds this interesting – maybe not enough for me to throw away medicine and become a professional writer, but enough to fulfill the desire “to be read”.

I catch myself scanning my thoughts and memories in hopes of finding some nugget of a memory that shouts ‘write about me!”. I feel like a junk man, picking around piles of scrap, looking for tidbits that could be reused. My family members are picking up on this. Brothers now start conversations with ‘you have to promise not to write about this’ as I was reaching for a scratch pad to jot down some notes. Skunks.

Thanks to the internet, so many people are writing. It is hard to find the good reads. It is time consuming to keep abreast of so many blogs; I really want to read them. And I don’t want to give up my usual book reading. The curse of a reader is wanting to read everything.

I’ve decided it is a good thing for so many people to be blogging as writing is both artistic and therapeutic. I am in favor of both. Historically, writing is a long time suggestion to people as a means to work through matters or express themselves. One teacher thought being creative was as important to the soul as food and water.

So I tap tap tap away and am glad others are doing so.

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June 2007

Spo-Reflections 2006-2018