Tagged: writers

Paperback Giveaway and Future Post Warning

So. Another month of pay after just two weeks. And I’m still alive.

Here’s the scoop. Book sales have stalled out. At six. That’s cool, I didn’t do it to get rich, well, not in money–knowledge rich. And to prove it to you, I’m going to give it to you. I really am proud of the book/blog and want it to be read. So if money is the barrier between the paperback version of this blog and your hands, I’m removing that barrier. Just email me at pete.deakon@gmail.com. Tell me where to send it. I’ll send it. And then you’ll have it. Want a couple? Order away. This is a popularity contest after all people. Read it and tell others!

On a wholly different note, I have written a post that contains the most vulgar language I have ever heard spoken whether in person or film or books or whatever. It is still written by me (though not invented by me) and in the end has my voice/style, but seriously it is trash. No one should read it. By no one, I mean Grandma and Grandpa. Mom. Kate. Dad. Well, all family members. (Scratch that. Sam, you’ll likely chuckle in disbelief.) Friends, please consider proceeding carefully. I am going to password protect the post. But the password will be available on a page at the top of the blog called “password”.

Why did I write it? Because Tolstoy came close. He came really close to sharing locker room talk. But he never did. Maybe other fellas have, I can’t say I’ve ever searched for it. But I am frequently confronted by a feeling of shock when I listen to other people’s conversations, and the conversation that this post records takes the cake. I’m ashamed of it. I’m nervous about being associated with it. I’m embarrassed to have been in the group that witnessed it. But I loved writing it. Just don’t read it. And if you do, remember you’re the one who typed in the password.

Able-Bodied Writer

It was always there.  It was palpable.  The feeling in the room added pounds to the air–especially the energy coming from Emily.  She was smart, meaning she could read and write fine, but I guess she just didn’t want the attention.  I loved the attention, especially her attention, and I think I also liked that I was protecting her a bit.  So when the Sunday school teacher asked for volunteers to read the bible verse, my hand shot up quickest and highest.

And I was good at reading out loud, too.  It was easy for me to tell because it was such an inspect-able task.  Either the words came out right, or they didn’t.  Plus, my teacher said I read well.  Add to that the fact that everyone knew that Dan Rather—national news man—had no accent and grew up in Kansas where my life was unfolding, and it seemed like fate.

Clearly I had a gift.

This gift was mostly centered around reading out loud and participating in the churches youth activities when everyone else just wanted to chill out in the peanut gallery.  Everyone else was only there because their parents were doing whatever the adults did at church.

So how does my able body affect my writing, you ask?  Originating from a body with no physical limitations, my writing is at once full of hubris, and yet it’s been called endearing and humble.

For all I’ve achieved in life, and I’ve done great things, I can never escape the simple truth my life reveals with each passing day.  As much as I love, as much as I grow, and as much as I laugh, I hurt people, I am unkind, I am inconsiderate, I am mean, and I lie.  And I want to do these things.

Why?

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(Okay, “as much” might be a bit strong.)