All About The ME!

  I’m giving Blogging and Writing 101 a shot.  I missed yesterdays “assignments” because I got confused by the instructions during both the sign up process as well as the instructions for the Commons.  It’s all very confusing (*le sigh*); this is the life of a brain injury survivor.  I finally got invited to the Commons for writing, now I have to get invited to the blogging one I guess.  I thought I sent the request but…oh well. So I’m going to do both assignments today starting with yesterday’s in one post and then I’ll see what todays is.

  So I have to introduce myself and explain why I like to write:

   You can call me Kt, my real name is not so very important.  I’m not “new” to blogging but I haven’t been committed to it enough to generate any type of real following.  I’m hoping that these “courses” and the “post a day” prompts will help with that.  I have two blogs that I write anonymously. My main blog is mostly about my stroke and resulting disabilities, struggles and random pieces of information; in both, I talk about personal things and experiences that I’m not entirely ready for people in my real life to know about so I keep my blogs private from them.  I’m very wordy and long-winded; I ramble on constantly.  I think this is a result of my stroke 4 years ago.

   It used to take me a while to open up to new people but once I did, I would explode and force my way to become center of attention even when I didn’t necessarily want to be.  I’ve always been blunt and honest and loyal to a fault.  People don’t like that though they say they crave it (otherwise, why would Trump have any favor in the polls, right?), until that truth and honesty is directed at them in the negative.  I’m struggling to put myself together from pieces found in the wreckage left from the stroke.  I’m still under there somewhere but what’s really interesting is how much of me I am finding.  It’s like I get to analyze every part of me as I pull me up from the mess at my own feet.  It’s terrifying, exciting and curiously, surprisingly informative.  I’m 32 yet I feel like I’m back at that stage in my early twenties when I looked back and said to myself,

Woah, puberty was hard. Am I an adult now?

    As you can probably tell, I really like to talk about myself.  It sucks for general conversation because I’m so averagely abnormal that people have a difficult time adjusting to my personality.  Thanks to the stroke, I’m overly conscientious about how I talk to people which is not  at all how I used to talk to people.  It’s all very strange because I also have this sense of freedom in the fact that I have a thin brain-to-mouth filter from the stroke (why I try to be aware of what I say) and yet I also don’t care to pussy-foot around most people. It’s liberating and constraining. Like I said, all very strange.

  I’ve written for a very long time.  I had a poem published in the tenth grade.  I read it now and wonder why.  I wrote my first short story a long time ago, I don’t remember when.  It wasn’t very good.  I have a 3 inch binder full of poems from high school (I had so much generic and expected angst) and I recently found this ridiculously thin notebook from just after high school with two or three really horrible short stories in it. The longest one was about three pages.  I’ve written 3 or 4 novels all lost to a crashed hard drive.I honestly wouldn’t mind being a true writer, whatever that is, but it’s not my goal in life.  I have no goals.  I’m just a person existing now.  I write because my brain itches my fingers.  I may have two blogs but I don’t post often because I’m writing a “book” for the third time.  I tell my husband, Kasper, that “I’m going to pretend to write” when he leaves for work or the gym.  It’s a very private thing for me.  Only in my stories can I be the personalities my true form won’t allow.  I can be proper, I can be dirty.  I can be sexy or ugly or young or old.  I can be a guy, a romantic, or rich or poor.

   My fingers used to itch all the time.  Sometimes I’d write my name over and over and then there’s a paragraph at the end about a love affair or a terrible murder scene.  I don’t know how it happens but it does. I cannot just sit with idle hands.  It’s nothing to do with a bible saying or anything; I just can’t be mentally still unless my hands…ahem, hand, is busy and that usually results in something involving a hobby like writing or painting.  I do miss painting but I’ve lost my patience for it.

   And there you have it! My lovely ramble about me, me, me, me!


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