Somewhere to play.

Sons and other things

The comments today about blogging and bloggers were ...

negative ?

I would like to disagree. (Then I would disagree about almost anything - one fifth Irish.)

Blogging is a personal journey into an area which interests the blogger, or an universe into which to vent - whatever.

The reading of blogs have aided me more than many would appreciate, as others have the same malady, madness, or misery, and then it makes a bit more sense, if there is sense to be made - why ?

We are all humans and we all share the same earth - in each his/her own way.

Blogging is almost writing, as free-verse is almost poetry.

The discussion about Playboy and renowned authors brought back a little story from way back. This story should be on its own, as it about my own son, and he deserves his own spot in the sun.

The subject of writing came up again in another forum.
This subject has a habit of popping up every now and then.
Some seem to be born as writers, the novelist - long and short, poets, lyric writers.
A few achieve fame by name or by effort, others fill the shelves of libraries, or dustbins, with their efforts.
Then a few develop writing as a means of expressing their trade, expertise, or ideas.

This way we keep an industry going, the industry of the written word.

We all (who wants to) need to find our place in it, our private or public corner, our niche.

There is only one way - do it!

One catches no fish as an armchair fisherman, yet one could send out for fish.

Not quite the same is it ?

When I am asked, What was it like living with your father? My tongue swells up and I squeak out words like, thrilling or complicated. I've given the question a lot of serious thought and I have a good answer: It was like living with an elephant for 15 years that was trying to give birth to something twice its size.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/nanette-vonnegut/the-elephant-in-the-room


Some give birth, and so many carry the baby to their grave.