Shoes, Ships, and Sealing Wax

Why am I here?

But first: A mortgage refinance update. I was right about the horror-movie ending...I was on the phone through the day and into the evening yesterday. The lender still hasn't transferred the funds to pay off the existing mortgage. They are using the wrong signature, wrong date crap to stall, probably because they don't have a buyer for my loan yet. I got really fed up and asked the attorney to pull the plug, and she drafted a letter saying that since they did not fund the payoff yet (technically required the day of settlement here) the deal was not closed. Suddenly they were willing to put in writing that all the requirements have been met and the funds will be transferred Monday. I'll see, but I won't believe it 'til I see.

I am still thinking about that guy and his kids.

Okay, on to why I'm here. I was a journalism major in college, a major I decided on back in junior high, maybe earlier. In fact, once I realized that professional hockey player was not an option (it wasn't for girls back then...I weep with joy seeing professional womens' sports now...but that's another entry), writer was my fallback job for what I wanted to be when I grew up.

I am a writer. I write technical documents on safety and chemicals. I actually find the subjects useful and even interesting, but I know most of my audience doesn't...they are just fullfilling job requirements. And it doesn't particularly bother me, because it pays the bills.

When I was in school I wrote daily. I reported for school papers. I researched and wrote. I took "creative writing," which I didn't particularly like, to write fiction and poetry...I figured any writing would make me a better writer. I wrote light essays about things I found amusing. I wrote letters (I went to school in days before e-mail) to friends around the country. A lot of what I wrote I wrote only for myself, because the words in my head seemed to belong on paper.

Sometimes when I edit my own work...the technical stuff I now do...I realize...I can't write any more. I use passive voice and jargon and violate every rule in Strunk & White. My dead professors are probably rolling in their graves, and I wouldn't want any of the living ones to read what I'm doing now.

The thing is, though I stopped writing, I have never stopped thinking like I was going to write. My little internal voice still speaks to a little internal me at a typewriter, turning all my observations and feelings into words intended for print.

Now, when that little internal me pulls the paper out of the typewriter and yells "Copy!" I don't expect anybody externally to care. I guess this blog is just a way for me to get my discipline back, to write every day (or when I can) and try out the tools I haven't been using at work. It's just a high-tech version of my old notebooks and journals, to satisfy myself.

That said: gentle reader, if you exist, feel free to comment. Correct my grammar and point out weaknesses; I'm used to that. Answer my agonizing questions; I'm always interested in hearing someone else's solutions.

Beat me up too bad; I can block your IP. {Wink.}