Ya Know What I Was Thinking?

I Am What I Am

I’m a selfish guy. I freely admit it; but I think many, if not most, introverts are. My hobbies are writing, drawing, creating music, and road-hiking. (And playing Minecraft. It’s my only “gaming” endeavor; I loathe most other video games, save for a quick board of Super Marion Brothers now and then.) These are all solitary ventures. The only things I do in groups are play cards or watch TV, pretty much.

I’m not a very good conversationalist, either. Usually, about 5 minutes into a conversation, I’m asking myself why the hell I started talking to a person in the first place. All I really want to do is end the conversation and go away, probably to write about how much I hate having conversations. Imagine living with a guy like me, where the only interaction is about the dogs or about how much a character on the TV irritates me, where my idea of a good time involves a quiet room, my dog, a pad of paper, a pen, and my computer (because I can’t read anything I write longhand, pretty much).

I’m “a dud.” I know this because I am reminded more frequently than seems polite. No dancing, no bar-hopping, no parties where everyone secretly has some axe to grind with everyone else but smiles like sharks at everybody instead. Yep, I’m in introvert, a dud…a writer.

I finally came to grips with it about 5 years ago. "Quiet Little Heart"  is written about that a-ha! moment of reconciliation. I am, at last, able to admit I am stingy with my time and my thoughts. I am more likely to reach out only if someone says they need me. I am content to give what I have mostly to the blank pages before me. I keep to myself and tend to draw in…but that doesn’t mean I don’t give back at all.

I do give back. I give my stories. I give my drawings and my music. At least, I offer these things. Whether they are accepted is no longer something with which I trouble myself. We all like a gold star now and then, but if what I offer is not desired, I’m content to keep it to myself, even to hoard up my stories and sketches and songs like some artistic Silas Marner.

So I offer this blog of random thoughts with which you may or may not identify. I offer some stories, poems—maybe even a picture or two (if I’m rich enough to afford that level of membership—I’m a miser, too; I'll save that for a different blog entry). But I made them all on my own, in my own little cave, in my own little world.

I know a little more about me now, you see, and I reckon maybe you do, too.

I’m selfish and self-contained. I’m an introvert. I’m an artist. I’m a writer.

And I wouldn’t want to be any other way.