by Jacob Robertson

Created on: March 10, 2009

I am not a writer. Nope. Not me. These words aren't coming from me. I may be moving my fingers around in weird little patterns on a keyboard but I had no idea that this is what I'd be typing. Now I've painted myself into a corner. You see what I've done there? I've written myself a bit of a headache that I've now got to figure out, but I'm denying all accountability for the following. Who knows what I'll say next? I never realized I was "meant" to be a writer. It's just something I struggle with from time to time.

Now what? It's another sentence. Whoop dee do. Like you care. Ok, maybe you do care and that's the thing that keeps me typing. I realized today that I was a writer when I was intrigued by this little memoir deal. I now feel obligated to spill my guts. This being a memoir and all I suppose I should share something about my self but let's get this out of the way first, writing? It's a pain in the tookus. I start every one of these things feeling like I shouldn't. It's going to be a long haul to 2400 characters and I'm not sure I want to drag you along with me for the ride.

The thing about writers is we all think we're the hottest thing since sliced Brussel sprouts. Get a little reputation on a website like this and suddenly I'm typing up all sorts of meandering tripe attempting to flummox my audience into agreeing with my ridiculous white bread world view. The odd thing is I slather my vocabulary about like mayonnaise on sour dough instead. Open faced, each idea blossoms as a ripe tomato sliced to reveal the pulpy innards of my soul and tossed together with opinions of fresh greens on chunks of convoluted metaphorical onion.

Lunch break.

Ok, I didn't have any tripe but the rest of that stuff made for an excellent sandwich. What was I saying? Oh yes. The very moment I realized I was "meant" to be a writer. Right. The very first time I remember people being impressed with my writing was in elementary school. They were all, "Stop picking your nose!" Then I'd write something clever and then they'd say, "Hey, that's pretty clever." And I'd say, "Thanks, does that mean I can pick my nose now?" I'd say this while picking my nose of course. That about sums up why I was meant to be a writer. Well, not really sums it up but ties together things writers often have, a nose picking problem and a clever idea to write about.

I bet that's enough characters to finish up this strange little experiment. Thanks for reading to the end! Now go pick your nose! Whoo!

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