Rolling On One

. .
.
Who?
I thought, string together a few adjectives. Then I realized,

Suppose your novel really had to start on a dark and stormy night. You know you can’t just come out and say it was one, so probably you’d do something like this:

That last crack wasn’t thunder. It sounded as though it came from right by the curb. “Rats,” thought Dean, “that maple already lost a branch the size of a Corolla in the April Fools’ Day storm.” The power was out to the streetlight, and no way was he going out in that slop to check. He’d be busy with the Sandvik saw in the morning.

I might still be booed out of the writers group, but don’t we both feel better since you figured out the dark and stormy bit yourself?

Well, fans, that’s how it’s gonna be. If a six-word summary were going to tell you about me, I wouldn’t have a whole web site. You can put the pieces together yourself and decide whether or not this is interesting before you realize we have nothing in common.

Oh. Yes, it had split right down the middle. The top branches were brushing the house, and they made the storm door a little springy when I opened it. I lied about the April Fools’ Day storm, though; it was just in 1997. The maple had split maybe fifteen years earlier.

What?
Whatever I feel like writing. What I like best on the web is something that lets me look through someone else’s eyes for a minute. I don’t need to know what you did today, but if you’re going to tell me, I want enough description that I can picture it. That’s what I’ll try to do. You may find yourself bicycling with me in Newton traffic or singing in Hebrew in the basement of Temple Emeth, without any warning. But you’re a net surfer. You can handle context switches like that, can’t you?

When?
As often as I can, but, sorry, first things first. Klez tuesday nights. Choir weds. Gotta index some stamps when orders com in. Knowing myself, it won’t be every day. I know, the good net journalers will call me feeb. Let ’em. When I don’t have anything to say, I won’t say it.

Where?
Newton, Massachusetts, seven miles as the Walk for Hunger walks from downtown Boston. Seven tenths of a mile from the trolley line. But maybe you’d rather drive across Texas with me thirty years ago.

Why?
Because I like to hear myself talk. Because I notice more and feel more alive when I’m going to tell someone about what I see. Because Bill Chance said, “go ahead and put up those essays. I’m always afraid the web is becoming too commercial, we need all the individual voices we can get.” Because I promised Shellyness I’d tell her a story.

I started out with the name “Dean's List” but never liked it. I ride a unicycle once in a while (and am inordinately proud of myself for having learned), and that's me rolling on one wheel. Even though my life is comparatively stable, it feels a lot as though I'm always trying to keep up and stay on top of things. On a unicycle you're always falling and trying to keep the support under you. I like that metaphor.

BTW, if this sounds like Charley, I got it from him, not vice-versa. If I’m the wrong generation, maybe you’d rather read his Symbol Factory

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	E-mail deanb@world.std.com