Your story is like every story: waiting to be told.
You: But, Blogger Dave I sound dumb when I write it down.
Me: What’s dumb sound like.
You: It makes me sound like a blogger.
Me:
Everybody has a book inside them. That’s what writers say, at least writers who’ve written a book.
Writers: Everyone has a book inside of them.
I agree, for the most part.
At a local event I scanned the room to find who had a book inside of them yearning to be free.
There was a man who looked like an Alpha Male.
In pink shorts.
What’s his story?
The prettiest woman in the room had blue hair.
There’s a book.
Have you seen the make-over videos where some crusty older guy who’s been on the street gets cleaned up, showered, shaved, haircut, and new clothes?
Instant new man looking like a CEO.
Or the woman, usually a librarian, who gets a new hairstyle, makeup and contacts, and Ta Da, she’s suddenly raising the temperature in the room?
Is that your story?
If not, go ahead and get cleaned up, changed up, and read on.
Your Story Starts Now
I told the dental hygienist I was in class and asked if she had a story to tell while she did her work.
Me: Do you have stories you’ve never told?
Lady: Yes, I do.
Me: Would you tell me one while I’m here?
Lady: I’m taking my secrets to the grave.
Which is fine, but what the hell?
She probably didn’t want to share anything with the rest of the office.
I mean, it’s not like twitter-x where people post all their weird stuff, or Facebook where everything is fabulous.
Me: Well, think about it and maybe tell one the next time I’m in.
Lady: I’ve thought about, and no. I’m taking them to the grave.
I believe her, but still . . .
I met a couple in Belgium a few years back, an older couple on a walking tour of Brugge sponsored by the hotel.
The man was funny, heckling the guide in just the right tone, which means I joined in.
As things turned out they lived in London, our next stop, and even more, we were staying near their apartment in South Kensington.
We all had a nice dinner and they invited us up to their place, which looked like student housing with art projects and bikes instead of fine furnishings and rare objects to oogle.
Me: Are these paintings your work?
Man: Oh, no.
Me: You don’t hang your work?
Man: It’s not good enough.
That’s what I call a harsh judgement. Not good enough? For who, I don’t know.
At least he didn’t say his painting made him feel like a dumb blogger.
Too often talented people set unrealistic standards for themselves.
Not here.