Giving Voice

I hate the word "blog." It’s one of those ugly words—unpleasant, nasal, harsh, almost smelly. Like "snot" or "phlegm," "smegma," or "nostril." Given that I have no positive connotation for "blog," how can I gleefully embark on this new venture? And the site, "blogspot." A compound ugly word, compounding my distaste. I guess I’ll get used to it.

It’s about giving voice. As a longtime diarist, I’m used to expressing myself on the page, whether tangible or virtual. I understand the desire to share views and news and I hope by adding mine to the cybercommunity, I can stimulate, validate, provoke, or simply entertain.

I’m one of those writers with an involuntary, often-intrusive, journalistic filter for life. Experiencing and observing simultaneously—watching and recording. Like yesterday, in the long hallway leading from my gym to the parking lot, I overheard two women chatting and was instantly immersed:

Thick with Boston accent, Woman #1, a plus-size, forty-ish bleach-blonde wearing a baggy T-shirt over leggings, says, "I got married for the second time."

Woman #2, a small, dark-haired woman of similar age, fit and effusive, hugs her tightly: "Congratulations! That’s wonderful!"

"Thank you!" the first responds. Pause. "Yeah. It’s been two years." Pause. "He’s very quiet."

Three beats.

"Well, umm, that can be OK," #2 offers. "Ya know what they say, opposites attract!"

Laughter. "Yeah, I know," replies #1. "It sure is different!"

"My Gary and I are coming up on our 22nd anniversary next week. It’s hard to believe," says #2.

"22 years. Wow."

Exiting to the parking lot, now out of earshot, I thought: Here’s a story. I wonder what the women’s relationship is? Why had they fallen out of touch? Did the newly married woman have an ugly first marriage? How ugly was it? Who is this quiet man? Did I hear her pain and regret or . . . ?

You see what I mean? When my writer radar is on, everything enters, no filter. It’s intrusive. It’s also fun. The conversation drew me like a magnet out of my inner thoughts toward someone else’s drama, immediately spinning a tale of intrigue at the snippets of shared lives, out of context, with no backstory, and no follow-up. Snippets shape themselves into sentences and unwittingly into paragraphs. I’m writing all the time.

My blog (ugh, hate it, hate it, hate it) will be a place for reflections on such random occurrences, as the spirit moves. I’ll also be posting excerpts from my memoir-in-progress, Where Is Luv? A Teenager’s Diary of Hope, Passion, and Total Confusion, along with updates on La Grande Agent Search . . . a drama unto itself.

And I’ll post essays, some old, some newly minted, as I give voice to the journalist within and all the other parts of myself that crave expression. Noting details, shaping experiences, playing always, always with words and sentences and paragraphs and their infinite potential for connection and meaning (and revulsion!) and joy.

NB: "Debfeb" is an online nickname related, big surprise, to my birth month.