CONTENT WRITER, STORY TELLER, BIG LIAR, OR SOME OF ALL

Content writer defined by twitter:

A content writer writes copy for MSM, magazines, blogs or web sites.

Also:

Marketing content, as in blogs, ad copy, magazine articles, etc.

And:

Anything posted online.

That last one is mine, so no italics.

When I hear ‘Content Writer’ I think of editing it down by one word. Which word?

Content.

A writer produces content, not a painting, not an opera, not a dance step, but words.

Are words enough?

You think that I don’t even mean
A single word I say
It’s only words and words are all I have
To take your heart away

 

It’s a start and a finish, but if the words aren’t enough add a painting, a photograph, in other words a meme.

 

This is helpful?

If not, keep reading content until something clicks.

Or play a song.

 

Just Get To The Point

My old man was born to rock
He’s still tryin’ to beat the clock

Think of me what you will
I’ve got a little space to fill

So let’s get to the point
Let’s roll another joint
And let’s head on down the road
There’s somewhere I gotta go

 

There’s something about being born mid-century modern that millennials miss.

I call out millies because there’s so many of them and they ought to know by now what baby boomers learned the hard way:

Time is not on your side.

It never was, but it felt different for the youths of the late 60’s.

I was an eighth grader in 1969. Did I revolt? Twice.

I blame it on misunderstanding the rules.

One summer night I stayed out late, midnight, and my parents didn’t know where I was.

Just walked up the street and kept on going.

I came in the front door to, “Where have you been?”

The story teller in me took over, but it wasn’t a believable story. To them.

I don’t know what gentle child-rearing handbook they were using, but their next move was back-handing the truth out into the open.

They knew I was lying, I knew I was lying, but it felt right.

In other words I stuck to my story. They may not have believed me, but they had to respect my resilience.

The next night found me walking through the door. At midnight. Again.

I’d wear them down until midnight became the new normal for this rebel.

My dad gathered me by the front of my shirt and jacked me up against a wall.

The shirt didn’t rip, which was a nice surprise since it was my favorite.

He put his face in my face by lifting me to my tiptoes. His breath was Marlborough fresh, but not in a bad way.

Looking me straight in the eye he asked, “Where have you been.”

I looked at him straight back and told a load of bullshit.

We looked at each other without blinking while my mom yelled, “HE’S LYING, HE’S LYING, YOU KNOW HE’S LYING.”

With his steely Marine Corps eyes like I’ve never seen before or since, boring a hole in my head until I was about to confess, he yelled back, “I BELIEVE HIM.”

Still leaning in, he lowered me down the wall, let go of my shirt, but kept his hard-eye on me.

“HE’S LYING.”

“I BELIEVE HIM, GODDAMNIT.”

“OH, YOU WOULD.”

“I DO.”

 

Hearing my dad lie for me changed the picture.

I don’t think it caused their later divorce, but it made me want to do better.

I was grounded the rest of the summer to think about it.

 

A Reading Summer For Better Story Ideas For A Future Content Writer

I spent the summer reading comic books in my room.

Not exactly my room. I had an older brother.

Since I was grounded I decided I didn’t need any of his attitude.

We came to an agreement: Leave me to my comics and I wouldn’t kill him in his sleep.

I was a loner. That was my punishment. And I liked it.

I didn’t like it enough to get weird about needing ‘my space’ if not not my room, but house arrest wasn’t bad.

As the family piece of shit they didn’t want me stinking up the neighborhood.

I’d been wrong to lie to them and worked on never letting it happen again, or never getting caught.

Reading comics helped me work up a better story in case I needed one in the future.

Who doesn’t need one?

 

The Future @ 69

Since it’s Thursday it’s class night.

This is  version of the story I will tell tonight.

I’m not saying a once a week gathering is the best writing class I’ve ever had, but it might be.

After fiction writing classes, poetry writing classes, news writing classes; after writing conference classes, writing seminars, and cozy front room classes with an Iowa Writers Workshop graduate; after all of that, along with a master class in screen writing, a story telling class is near the top.

And none too late.

There’s a connect-the-dots feel about baby boomers that runs from hippies to drugs, sex, and rock and roll.

Young boomers saw rock stars as role models of lifestyle and freedom and movement.

Old boomers leaning into their evangelical Trump phase feel shame for their earlier behavior.

They were sinners who’ve repented and now want others to repent just like them, sin or no sin.

Until they see this while they’re driving down the road:

It’s a sign from God, or a spirit, or a tricky leprechaun.

Whatever it is, there’s a pot of gold waiting.

Next come the memories, then a left turn for 1972.

Hold on tight.

Did you write the book of love
And do you have faith in God above
If the Bible tells you so?
Now do you believe in rock and roll?
Can music save your mortal soul?
And can you teach me how to dance real slow?

 

Same song in 1999.

That’s one content rich writing there by Don McClean.

Anyone else got some?