Words mean more than what is set down on paper.

Maybe Richie is right. Maybe this blog is dying of cancer.

The whole point of a blog is to write, right? We wake up one morning and decide that we want to leave something behind. We want someone to remember us. We want our words to be passed down from generation to generation, a worn-out tattered copy of our stories handed from father to son and son to daughter. We want the world listening to our music and screaming our names when we get up on stage every night, for as many nights as that’ll last. The only problem is finding someone to leave everything to. Who cares enough to carry the book everywhere? To still play our records once the newest fad has started to play on the radio?

It is up to you, dear reader – if you’re even out there – to care. I am leaving you in charge of my sick body. And it is up to you to make sure every word I have imprinted on my skin makes it to the next life.

So, if you’re out there, somewhere in cyberspace, floating from useless social network to useless social network, remember that we’re not so different. Like you, I want someone to know that I existed. I want someone – I’ll settle for one person – to read my words and fall in love. And, if you’re not a writer, if the words don’t flow, fear not. I will be your voice. And if not me, Richie. And if not Richie, there will be someone else. A Hemingway or a Palahnuik. A Dennis Lehane or Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Someone will write your words. And when it happens, you’ll wonder how they knew. How could he know that you longed for the desert or a Cave of Swimmers? How could she know that you never understood the meaning of your name until you lost it?

Every day, millions of people fall in love with stories. Anecdotes from our professors or co-workers. The article in the paper or that story from Esquire. That new book we started reading last night before bed. Words mean more than anything. Without words, what would we have? Who would we be?

I’m asking you to take a leap of faith. I’m asking you to dive right in. Fuck testing the water. If it’s cold, we’ll, either, freeze together, or get warm. Fall in love with my words. Fall in love with your own. You never know. We could be soulmates.

Our Book vs. Michael Douglas

Well, my co-hort, Jenn has got to think about Michael Douglas. Seems poor Micheal is not on the lucky side of the coin, which I feel bad about, but has me thinking, "Is our idea of this book potentally on it's way out just like Ole Michael?" I personally hope not, but neither look good. Right now, I feel Ole Mike has a better chance than our book.
Nobody has shared a submission with us and our one and only follower has abandoned us for lack of activity on this blog. Where do we stand? Or are we on our backs in need of CPR? Do we need to be revived?
I realize what we have to do....blog on a more consistent basis. But will this really save our book idea? What we need is folks to share with us. It's so easy, people can have their voice heard, and if good, hopefully we can put in print, black and white, for all the world to see.
If you never tried writing maybe you should, there is nothing wrong in trying, Sometimes you never know what will fall out of your brain.
So if your pulling for Michael Douglas like we are, submit a short story, play, poem, essay we would love to share.

Why did you keep writing this book if you didn't even know what it was about?

Not knowing what to write has always been the problem. Which writer said he didn’t believe in writer’s block? Oh. That’s right. Michael Douglas in Wonder Boys. “She was a junkie for the printed word. And, lucky for me, I manufactured her drug of choice.” What do you think about movies about writers? Is it an accurate portrayal? Emma Thompson in Stranger Than Fiction. Douglas in Wonder Boys. Johnny Depp in Secret Window. Are they you? Me? Maybe. Maybe not.

It’s been a long time since I wrote in this thing. It’s been a not so long time since I sat down and wrote something. I’ve been writing in fragments lately and thoughts. Stories and half of stories and entries that read like words from a diary. This is how I feel and this is what I think about. Is that the stuff of novels?

Michael Douglas, that poor bastard, has cancer. That has nothing to do with writing. Unless you’re Patrick Swayze, in which case, you might start writing your autobiography now. When you’re gone, your words will remain.

You know what bothers me? Kindles and Nooks. Electronic reading devices. At this rate, my words will be found here and only here. The printed word will cease to exist and the future will never know the beauty of a book.

So, there you go. Writer’s block: Does it exist? Are you Michael Douglas? Are you Emma Thompson? Do you know how to kill Harold Crick? Have you been writing anything lately? Will you leave any words behind? And, last, but most definitely not least, will you fall victim to the electronic age or will you keep your Barnes and Noble, Shakespeare & Co., Strands, and indie bookstores alive?