That Darn Sun

In this city I live in, this City of Angels, most can agree the one thing we DEFINITELY have going for us is the weather. Sunshine, folks. Almost all the time. I started taking it for granted until I visited Ohio and West Virginia in the dead of winter. Freezing with piles of snow and icicles the size of midgets, ready to fall off a building and impale you any minute? No thanks.

In those states to the middle and the east, the weather people on the TV actually have useful jobs. Whereas here it’s usually a ridiculously tight shirt wearing lady with super fake breasts talking to some old man in a suit behind a desk about how it’ll be mild and sunny everyday, in places where the weather changes, one has to really pay attention to what their less surgically endowed weather sayers have to say.

So, yeah, it’s ridiculous to complain about this, but that ball of fire in the sky, that orb that keeps things bright and warm here in LA, is getting a bit pushy. Today, wandering the sidewalks in my black General Zod tee shirt (yeah, I’m stylish), my body started reacting to the heat emenating from the sky. I don’t know what the temperature is in numbers, but my body is telling me it’s a little hot. Already. It’s March.

Maybe it’s just an especially warm weekend. I hope. While Summer is swell and all, I’m not a huge fan of shorts or the other fashions necessitated by the increase in heat. Flip flops? No thanks. Tank tops? I prefer to hide my lack of guns. But my preferred long pants and shoes style choices are clearly about to become problematic again.

Because I hate sweating.

Now, I didn’t break a sweat out there today… but I could feel it coming on. If I’d stayed out longer? My body’s faulty cooling system (because, really, there’s got to be a better biological way for humans to stay cool other than sweating salty, odor producing water from our pours) would’ve surely kicked in.

So, Sun, why not relax? We’re good here, in LA. Bright, clear days and mild temperatures are just fine. Why not go help those folks in the Midwest and East Coast and leave things here as they’ve been for the past few months, eh? K, thanks.

Writing, Just Can’t Help It

I love to write. It’s so fun. Creating a story, whole worlds sometimes out of nowhere, just using words. Lines and squiggly things — letters — put together to make words. It’s kind of amazing… and weird. And ridiculous.

And often really hard.

Hm… I hate to write sometimes. When I’m racking my brain to come up with a plot or just something interesting to say. Writing is all well and good, but you have to write something worth reading, right? But lots of people have different ideas as to what is worth reading. Heck, I don’t even know why I read what I read sometimes. I guess if it’s something that someone is willing to stare at until all the words run out, then it was worth writing, right?

Do I have something to say? Well, yeah… I mean, maybe not always some amazing truth or some passionate cause or occurrence that I feel really needs to be expressed, that might really resonate with a reader or whatever. But just thinking something is funny or wacky or might make someone laugh, maybe brighten their day — that is worth it, too, right?

Of course, after writing one has to get the story in front of the eyes that will be doing the reading. The internet, blogs like this one and whatnot, has made that much easier. Still not effortless, though. I used to think that being published in print was the end goal. If I write something that some company is willing to put on paper and bind together and make into a book — boom. Success! I’m done!

Not true. Sure, some writers reach a certain point when the publisher or an agency or magical fairies will take care of the getting the work out to the readers for them, but that’s rare. And even then, lots of authors blog and Tweet and set up interviews and appearances and tour on their own to let people know their work is out.

I guess it’s never as simple as just writing until I hit “the end” and then that’s it.

Honestly, this has become the hard part. How do I get the word out effectively without becoming a pest? And might all this time talking, blogging, Tweeting, Friendstering (I kid) about my writing be best spent actually writing new stories?

It’s all so confusing. Hm… and perhaps not worth writing about, really. Oops.

Writing… freaking writing. Crap. I just can’t help it.