Hello Friends (and Jaren). I guess I've got a lot of explaining to do after my long absence, but explaining is difficult because I haven't really done anything with my life over the past few months. FranklinCovey is doing its best to eat me alive. I'm currently roaming accross small town america writing activity guides for teens. There aren't many perks to the job other than the snack closet and being able to expense issues of 18 and other such girlie magazines to capture the "voice" of whatever generation I'm supposed to be writing to. In short, I want to quit. I wish one of you had a guest house I could live in for free.
So since my life is boring, I will say goodnight for now. Applebees is closing soon (that's all Alabama has to offer right now and It's all I've eaten during the past week, maybe two weeks) and I want to take advantage of the complimentary hotel room delivery. I hope all is well at the writing center. I will stop by soon, crash a seminar, and stop any emotional fiascos that might be occuring.
Sincerely,
Kevin Federline (K-Fed)
P.S. I am in the process of purchasing a bulldog and I would like everyone to vote on a name in the comments section, please.
1. Lazer Fangs
2. Futureman
3. Nipples
4. Mr. Bo Jangles
5. Rumpelstiltskin
6. General Lee
6 comments:
Greg, old buddy. It's so good to hear from you. I don't even mind your nasty little comment. What are you doing in Alabama? Teenage girls in Alabama don't read.
By the way, can you get me a job with FranklinCovey? Seriously.
Definitely Mr Bo Jangles or . . . Ruby Que ball--boy or girl?
WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN? Do you realize we've looked under every bale of straw, opened back door bar rooms, pulled apart burlap tents in homeless-ville looking for you? Jaren's been searching with a flash light in the desert, braving giant tarantulas, thinking you were hurt, all alone, and needed us desperately. One night,we gathered a posse and waded the Rio Grandee (I'm watching a lot of Westerns) calling forlornly into the night air: "Greeeeeeg. Greeeeeg. We're here for you, buddy. Hang on. Weloveyou." And You? You've been selling out for gratuitous motel rooms, carefully tucked sheets, and free fajitas from Applebees, with no thought about friends who worried that your soul was crossing with Charon into the underworld. I'm going to kill you. And you sound like crap: pretty darn lonely (where's Kimberly?)hopeless, burned out, and dare I say it--desperate. (if Meg and Ben weren't living here, you know you could have the extra room in a minute. Maybe some weeks by the river would help you fall back into your voice.) I'm so mad at you, I could break all the fingers on your writing hand and watch them bleed. I could feel you listening out there, reading our bantering and silly cynicism, but you wouldn't speak! YOU ARE A WRITER, Gregory. Have you forgotten? What are you doing? And ignore Jaren, because he's a WRITER too. Though he's a non-fiction writer--one of the best--who just doesn't know it yet. He's wallowing around in fiction and can't settle into his gift, because it's not in fiction.
I want to scream. I could not write, I cannot write, but I had it once, and I felt it--before I buried sisters and husbands, pulled children by the hair through prisons, and crawled from under a killer divorce.I remember the feeling of pure language sluicing through me, flowing onto the page, tasting like ripe oranges. And the headiness when I'd see a paragraph of straight rhythm and sound revealing things to me I didn't know I knew. I remember when just the right image fit the thought so natural and tight that my insides squeezed down as I watched it develop on the page like film developing in a dark room. I'd see an outline, then color and tiny detail, and within the heart of those simple images would be universal absolutes--they'd be there because somewhere in the process I'd push over the edge into truth. When I'd peel back images, pare them down with a machete, and splash them on yellow walls with red paint, I'd connect, and I'd write fast and furocias for all the silent men and women whose stories need to be told, sang, and even screamed if only at the sky, so they can get air to breathe. And you and Jaren and James have one thing I never had--TIME. You can write, Greg. I've read sentences by you that made me draw in breath, and your voice is already there; you just fall into its rhythm, and magic comes out of you. But on no you're working for someone who wrote Seven goals for a tidy mind, or whatever the heck he made beaucoup money on, and it's going to take your voice and ring it out like a dirty rag. The Corporation is about money, Greggy. Money. And money is not it.
Now I'm sorry for yelling. I've turned old at 60 and ornery like rancid meat, but you keep in touch. Write one paragraph a week here with us about flipping endlessly through channels in a motel, about flying in a seat next to a bigot, about whatever boils up from you, or you are grounded forever and ever.
How could I say it better than that? You monkey, maybe you should write a book called The Seven Habits of Highly Effectively Sucking.
You're lucky I like you so much.
Names for your dog.
The Dog
Dogasaurus
Orphan
Wino
Lunchmeat
Dysentery
Cisco
Jaren
The Writing Center
Ballyhoo
General Lee-shun
Xanadu
Roxy Balboa
Greg 2
Harry Pottbull
Hermione (if you call your dog this, girls will say "aw")
Freeloader
Abe Lincoln
I also like: Lazer Fangs and Mr. Bo Jangles
Hey Greg, General Lee-shun is it! Or just General--perfect for a bulldog--but wouldn't fit a dog like Patch. (He presently has a crush on the skunk who lives under my saddle shop. I've tied to talk him out of it, but he's sits there, looking blandly away, ignoring me completely. It's grossing me out.)
I miss you. You're too far away. Write me one paragraph of straight detail about where you're sitting right now (as long as it's outside the toilet),so I can imagine where you are and what you're seeing. Pronto, Puppy?
Nipples would be the easiest to call out if he runs off. You've got to think about how fun it will be to yell a name like Rickytickytumbonosawrumbocherryberryritchypipperrypumbo. (or however that goes).
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