Write for fun and profit

Everything is out of my comfort zone.

Here I am, only 66 years old and feeling sort of constipated. Mentally. I feel I must write, even though I couldn’t say why. Here’s a few ideas: I’ll write a really long book and pay someone to read it. I did this once with my book about my uncle Carl Ralph Bonde, Jr., only I gave copies of my writing to my son Robert and my nephew Jon. I got the same response from both of them. Did they rave about it? Love it? Hate it? Tell me it was a piece of crap? No. I heard nothing from either of them because, I’m confident, neither could read past a few pages. Also, they love me. Yes, even Jon does, although he might not admit it. Bob tells me all the time.
My second idea, since I doubt I could afford to pay anyone to read my words, would be to use it for some self-improvement. That way I’d glean some good without involving anyone else, really.
Not really my second idea, but my second and third.
I’d write all of my regrets, from my earliest sins, crimes, slights, omissions, unkindnesses, mistakes, and downright evil deeds. You know how they sometimes ask condemned prisoners or people on their deathbeds? Any regrets? No, they would say. My answer would be that yes I have regrets. Here they are. Thousands of pages, if you have time to read them. If you are willing to read them, here’s several hundred dollars to make it worth your while. I’m sorry! Sorry!!
Third: I’d write down all of the braveries. Last night when I was contemplating this I resolved to write about my own, but even though I think I could list hundreds I thought the ones I witnessed could be written as well. Writing about brave deeds is tricky. In my opinion, the deed doesn’t constitute the bravery, but the fear one had prior to doing it. As a fearful, shy person, I have done many. And I have witnessed many, also.
Now I’ve got a fourth. I’ll write about everyone I’ve loved! Many of these people are still living. I’d start with the ones I loved most. Come to think, some of those I loved greatly never knew I loved them. I must let them know!
Now the fifth. I’d go through each issue of The Portable Wall, my popular paper-and-ink literary journal, and write about the contributors, wonderful to me, people who greatly contributed to my life. I’ll have to get back issues from my nephew who took them home.
Sixth, how I learned to identify plants. Wild flowers, particularly. Also trees. And shrubs.
Seventh, my experience with crappy volkswagen bugs, vans, Fords, Nissans, Hondas, BMWs, Tatankas, and Subarus. All of them wear out, break down, and pollute the environment. I liked them, loved them, hated them, forsook them.
Eighth, the horror of living in an “efficiency apartment.”
Ninth, my encounters with dead people.
Tenth, I don’t have a tenth yet. I did not memorize any multiplication tables until I was about 23 years old.