Well. My first post, (not counting 7,757 tweets since 2008.) I prefer not to think of this as a groundbreaking moment of any sort. It’s all part of the ongoing.
I’ll endeavour here to write with more forethought than I generally do on Twitter, though (necessarily) with less than I bring to my book-length word products.
I will also spell “endeavour,” and many other words, in the Canadian/British way, with a “u” between the “o” and the “r,” (Favour, labour, neighbour, and so on.) Americans define themselves in part by leaving this “u” out, with one intriguing exception: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Space_Shuttle_Endeavour
I’ve called myself a writer since the time years ago when, as an underemployed actor, I wrote a first play that actually got produced (in Toronto, by Buddies in Bad Times Theatre.) It was a farcical, near-absurdist piece of stagecraft called Home Hazards. It made people gather and pretty much fill the seats, which was a decidedly different and greater thrill than performing. Plus, before the rehearsals and applause, I had the private pleasure of being alone for many happy, totally engaged hours with my imagination and the characters that sprang from it.
Remembering and imagining are inseparable. Combine them and you have storytelling: novels, films, plays, short stories, all that — or what happened to you this morning on the streetcar.
If you’re a writer, the heartwarming or creepy event on the streetcar goes into the storehouse. It may be used later, almost intact, or maybe not at all. Most likely, it will do its work subconsciously, spurring imaginings that don’t directly involve either the facts, or the “facts.” The facts of memory are always “facts.” Yes they are. Don’t contradict.
So far, I’m winging this thing. I’ve called it “jimbartleyword” because the word alone is the unifying element. Trends will emerge, of course. I may post on anything: Politics. Books/authors. Liberation. Internet. My dog. My rant of the day. Cheese. Bosnia. My childhood. Joseph Stalin. Queer stuff. (btw, I’m a mo. In my high school, “mo” was also used as a verb. It meant the act of subjecting an unwilling participant to a homosexual advance. “Peter tried to mo me in the showers after swimming.” See? But I never did a thing like that in school. Well, maybe once…)