Not much is made of writing here on Open Salon.

The fact we are shaped by everything around us and thus we all write differently. We may write on a topic one day and find ourselves attacking the same topic from a different perspective and different tone the next.

We are constantly in flux, we hope to find an original voice in a world of billions of voices. We hope to be read and perceived in the way we intended.

It doesn't always work out that way.

My golden years of childhood were sheltered in upper middle class bliss. I didn't know we were financially struggling until long after the struggle was over (early 1980's, interest rates hovering around 20%).

It was an idyllic Norman Rockwell childhood, and I owe my parents too much for the shelter from reality they provided.

I was very much a hobbit basking in the shelter of The Shire.

In my twenties I struggled to conform and balked at the constraints. Times were different then. Drinking and driving was a wink-wink acceptable behavior.

Social mores were not as PC.

My twenties were a confused time, struggling to live up to my supposed potential.

By day, the son of a well respected businessman and stay at home mother.

By night, a carousing, hard drinking, self-absorbed, n'er do well (this is the nicest way I can describe myself).

I was a conflicted narcissist that didn't like being who I was supposed to be. I didn't come to this realization until long after I'd wriggled myself free of the fun wheel.

Such is life.  

I was born with a silver plated spoon and rejected it. Was it that simple? No.

I wanted to please my parents, I still do. But, we only live once and I wasn't happy.

Times have changed since dad started in Real Estate (1959). The days of a man's word and handshake meaning something were long gone.

He has survived and prospered on his honesty. He also cost himself millions by being honest.

In short: His honesty set a lot of his potential wealth free.

For this tenet I owe him immensely. His honesty and dignity are engrained in me.

I'd love to be rich, but I cannot accept money under false pretenses. This
"honesty thing" has given me the wonderful experiences that shape who I am today.

I know how to fuck people over and make oodles of money, I choose not to.

The ways I'm speaking of are legal, they exist in the gray area. That amorphous area where what is legal is not what is necessarily right (or should be legal).

When I tell people, or they knew me prior, that I took jobs in the ghettos (urban areas) of Milwaukee, they expect my writing to be dead-on documentaries of life in the ghetto.

That has not been my forte'. I was there, immersed in the lifestyle, powerless to help.

The "powerless to help" thing has had a hold on my writing.

But I haven't written directly about my days of back breaking labor in the shitholes of Long Beach, LA and Reno (migrant worker). My respect for the Mexican laborers and their respect I earned (at age 38 it was not easy).

I have not studied the illegal alien issue enough. My first question would be: Why don't we bring them into the fold? Why are they illegal?

I can never fully understand "ghettos" or the more PC term "urban areas" because I wasn't trapped there. I could leave.

What I could do is write about the hopelessness people felt and point out they are just like me (and you, sans opportunity).

I am a voyeur, just as I am voyeur on life.

We are not all created equal, even our Founding Fathers didn't believe that.

I like to think that those with the ability to help others would do so. But that's just what I like to believe, reality proves me constantly wrong.

I started this article talking about writing. It's about decisions we make everyday that affect our writing.

I spent my 20's talking about writing, because I was busy being unhappy with myself.

Self-loathing, arrogant and even dumber than I am today (hard to believe).

Then came the period de crappe'. I perused my writing and realized it was all crap.

I threw the computer, the scripts, the short stories, the floppy disks in the trash and vowed never to write again.

About a year later (1998'ish) I looked around my tiny shithole of an apartment and had an epiphany. My new habit of not sleeping and having to write down ideas in order to be allowed sleep had produced notes everywhere.

Stuck on the fridge, piled on the night stand, stuck on the wall (thank you post it notes).

A fucking script, an original story, a voice.

It doesn't mean it's good, anymore than the amount of books you sell means it's a good book.

Here on Open Salon many stories get huge numbers of reads and comments and ratings based on popularity of the author (and/or sucking up).

Sucking-up is a real world occurrence as well (Nepotism is the best way to break in).

We all want to be accepted.

An easy way to be accepted in a society (in this case Open Salon) is by one of the "popular kids".

In my not so humble opinion (I don't like writers that lack confidence in their own writing) this does not make it good writing or story telling, anymore than the pulp fiction or romance novels make millions of dollars proves them great literature.

I wrote this as a think piece for myself.

I've got a story seemingly worthy of a script (bubbling in my head), I've got stories of my days in urban situations and traveling migrant worker (my head bubbles over).

These would be hard for people to duplicate, since the adventures I took are not normal for a milquetoast middle American caucasian to embark on.

These trips spawned my best writing, the three script/stories I believe-in, as one believes in their children.

Most importantly the words I wrote got me the love of my life.

So, as silly as my decisions look to outsiders and me financially, I have blazed my own path and made my own bed, and all the other axioms.

Had I changed any of these decisions, I would not have met and fallen in love with Kim.

How do I marginalize that?

Writers make decisions within stories and in reality that will affect their words, just as they are affected by the randomness of reality.

Within the worlds you create you are truly free to create things as you see fit.

Alas, the real world is free to randomly affect you and, in turn, our story and voice.

It's why I haven't traveled back to my old scripts. I'm not in the same place emotionally or physically.

Thanks to those of you that have persevered through this lengthy self indulgent search for the my own truth.

I have shared more than I should have, there are those out there waiting for my mistakes... I make them all the time.

This was an overly open overview and generalization, and I apologize.

I'm not sure I want to revisit my past.