An Excuse to Write

It's said that it takes something like 10,000 hours of practice to master a skill or career. At least, that's what the guy who wrote that Outliers book said (which, btw, if you've never read that particular book, go spend your heroin money on something that won't rot your braincells). Ever since I read this little bit of information my senior year of high school, I haven't really given much thought to how much time 10,000 hours really is. That's a whole lot of time, if you hadn't figured it out yet. I mean, what else have a I spent 10,000 hours doing? Sleeping? Eating? Clicking my heels together while wishing that he'd finally man up and plant a wet one on me? I don't know. And then I think about my writing. How many hours have I spent writing shitty research papers while shamelessly citing Nick Jonas' diabetes? Writing passive aggressive poetry? Blogging about things that don't necessarily matter to anyone (even myself, sometimes)? I don't know.

Realistically, I probably am nowhere near 10,000 hours of writing, but I see this as a reason to write more and to keep writing. Maybe this whole "keep a blog for school because blogging is the next big job market and thing that will put bread on your table so you don't resort to becoming the next (who am I) 24601" that I keep hearing isn't just because, yeah, one day I might get a job with a company because they need someone with experience with blogging. Maybe it's an easy way to cumulate some hours of writing so I get the suck and lack-of-experience out of my system.

So, what do I write about? 

This is the hard part. You see, I am always listening. Always watching. Always wondering what's going to happen next. That being said, I have years of blackmail at my disposal. This, mind you, is one of the amazing perks to being A) an ignored and forgotten middle child and B) someone no one truly considers a threat. I could write about that thing that someone did or said while totally wasted. About equal rights for the left and right boob during awkwardly irresistible encounters with second base etiquette. About every inch of oppressed anger and frustration that lingers in my veins. About my failed attempt to steal the wedding band of the lead singer of Switchfoot during a gig in Oklahoma City.  About car wrecks and sprained ankles and unappealing ankle tattoos on PE teachers and casseroles that didn't give my intestines the heebie-jeebies and books that made me laugh and cry at the same time and how I got matching bruises on my shins and roadside attraction spankings on family vacations. I have a lifetime of stories to tell, but where do I dare to begin?

I need an excuse to write. I need prompts. I need inspiration. I need someone to say, "Hey, tell me about that time...." and trigger multiple heart attacks due to the stress of having to actually talk about an era of my less-than-enthusing life. I want someone to ask to be told about something. Otherwise, these stories may go completely unheard and, consequently, forgotten.

Sure, this blog post is an excuse for me to write, but I feel like that's okay. I've used this blank canvas for other things. Why not use it to increase some writing time? I see no harm in that. Actually, all blogs should be an excuse to write.

The things tales, stories I've mentioned in this entry may one day be read or heard, but, right now, I think I'll keep them to myself. Save them for a rainy day... When I need another excuse to write.