I’d like to introduce you to the word “hingent.”

I have a confession to make. I wasn’t all that “sold on” what I wrote yesterday.

It didn’t, how shall I say this without hurting my feelings, make a whole lot of sense. I’ve spent most of this morning trying to be OK with it because every day can’t be a diamond.

Indeed, most of them are just broken pieces of coal.

But, but…that, that’s OK.

The whole point of starting a blog was to give myself room to make writer’s mistakes with the option of accountability, depending on how many read the blog and felt the need to comment. I’d fallen into a rut, as a playwright and poet; I needed a break from “real” writing*.

So, I started a blog.

I know that doesn’t sound right, but it’s in my blood; I’m that kind of reader, too. When I get my fill of academic (or you might also know this as required) reading, I trade that book for another, something of fluff, and read it, instead. I believe in more literary circles it’s known as escapist literature.

It’s how I discovered both Wicked by Gregory Macguire, who doesn’t capitalize the “g” in his last name, and the trendy Twilight saga by Stephenie Meyer, who spells her first name with the rarely seen second “e.” I also, and proudly, managed to get through the entire 12-volume collection of the Left Behind series, and with a straight face, I should add; I will make no comment about the spellings of either of these two authors’ names, though.

Superstitious, you know.

Still, can’t argue with this: there’s no greater escape than the end of the world.

But, this idea’s hingent – a new word of mine – on the fact that escapist literature, by my definition, is already written. Its ridiculous  flights of fancy have been penned, to the page, and consumed by eager readers like myself who reach such moments of complete desolation that they find themselves perusing ingredients on average, everyday groceries for the escapist qualities the exotic ingredients offer.

Try it sometime: flip over a box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and prepare to be transported to a world where the beaches are covered in sodium tripolyphosphate and Yellow 5. Dig your feet into the warm whey by-product and let the enzymes tickle your toes as you bathe in the rays of milk protein concentrate with >2% citric acid.

No sunscreen necessary.

I think, and quite rightly, this is why grocery stores sell the traditional “dime store” novels, usually found smack-dab in the middle of the store.  And I’m grateful for that; I’m glad they do. It’s the perfect spot between Roman Meal bread on the one side and Manchego cheese on the other. 

Amanda would never have found Charlaine Harris, without the clever use of this consumer design concept.

It wasn’t even her popular Sookie Stackhouse novels that she found, either. It was a separate series, completely, of five, I believe. I think all this woman does is write, write, write.

Like I’m supposed to be doing.

Last week, someone asked me what new play I was working on. I sucked in a sharp breath, remembering, “Oh, that’s right, I’m a playwright.”

This is that conversation.

What I said to them was, “Well, I’ve been sort of floating between ideas.”

They said, “Like what?”

I said, “Like, you know, what I usually write. Stuff like that.”

Pause.

They said, “Oh. Ok.”

Pause.

“But, I’ve been doing a lot of writing, you know, just not plays. I mean, I’ve started several new plays, but I’ve…I’ve…I’ve. I keep a blog.”

Dead silence. I keep a blog. Really? I sounded like a sugar pimp.

“I didn’t know people still read blogs,” was the nearly innocent reply.

Pause.

“Yes, I blog. And, some people read it, actually. I think they even enjoy it.”

I’m not sure he was convinced because he didn’t ask for the website; most people would, you know, in polite conversation. And, so I stood there thinking: I know blogs have come down a bit in the world, but I still think they’re culturally significant. I still think they’re of vital importance. (*And I happen to consider it “real” writing).

I mean, never before in the history of civilization has such an opportunity been given: you can get online, type up a few of your odd opinions, publish them immediately for the world-at-large and quite frankly, start a revolution. Just like that.

Even on Twitter…142 words or less.

Which brings us back to a really scary point: people just don’t like to read. This person, god love him for a liar, was interested in a play because he could watch it. Not because he wanted to read it.

That’s a challenge, to presume I could write anything worthy of escape.

I do try, though. Very hard. I originally started out forcing myself to join the 1000 Words Mark or Bust campaign for blogging, but maybe that’s too long for an escape route?

Are those too many words for you?

Because it’s no cakewalk to write 1000 words a day. Look at my previous blog record. Some days I couldn’t do it (or didn’t have time) to create brand new sentences for mass consumption.

That’s why today’s blog stops at 900 words…roughly.

Oh, and don’t worry, you’re welcome.

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