Why Do I Write?

Why do I write?

There was a time when the words flowed from my hand and dropped onto the paper with ease. In those days long ago I walked with Kings and Gods and we talked of love, war, happiness and sorrow. I shared my dreams with you and could make you laugh or cry with the press of my pen. I scattered my words into the rain so that you might feel the mud between your toes as you ran barefoot through the puddles. I showed you where to find golden trees that glittered with a thousand lights. I could share with you a sunrise that splashed orange marmalade and pink chiffon onto a deep blue canvas. With the ink from my soul, I tattooed my stories into your thoughts.

But I left the muse of my youth behind as life pushed away the youthful dreams and parked it’s minivan on my inspiration. Time covered the mounds of words that lay strewn in piles upon my desk and hid them behind mortgages, 401k’s, and cable bills. Children rushed in and out taking with them my every thought. My life was consumed and I was content. I no longer had a use for words and tossed them into the attic of my mind. Over the years they lay there in the dark, alone and hoping that someday my muse might come again.

Age has little more to do these days than to pry open all the doors of my memories. It has found my words of forgotten rhythms and emotions and dropped them haphazardly into the forefront of my mind. I see that the ink on those words that I once drew from the well of my youthful imagination has dried and faded; but it has not disappeared completely. Now they are with me again. They may be tarnished and blemished but they still cling to life. I will attempt to take those words and clean them until they shine again. They still believe in me and I need to believe in them.

Defining Success

There’s only one reason I post on the internet. It’s just to let my ego come out and play for a bit.

I don’t do it for money. In 2006, Publisher’s Weekly reported that the average book sold less than 500 copies. That means that in order to make $30000, a person would have to charge $60 per book. Or in most cases where a book does good to sell 100 copies, $600 per book.

I don’t do it for fame. WordPress, the host of this blog reports that there are 84.3 million new posts on the internet every month. Each month, people view more than 23.3 billion pages (that’s billion with a bold, upper case, hi-lighted in yellow, B). So the odds of even getting read by a total stranger is .1652% or 1 in 4,956,000 people on the internet. That is mind boggling. All I can say is that 1 person that stumbled onto my site will be one lucky dude.

So why do I keep putting my words out there for the world to scrutinize? It’s the thrill of that instant endorphin rush. When I say  that I’m a comment junkie, it’s true. I  admit it, each time I open my Facebook page, or my blog site www.thebackyardpoet.com my heart leaps a bit. I’m an instant gratification poet. I write my words, put them out into the world through the network of social media and wait impatiently. I am not a patient man. If you don’t believe me, just ask my wife.

I tend to post most things at midnight so sometimes I have also have to spend a sleepless night waiting for you guys to send me some love.

Hopefully, you will give me some likes… maybe even a few of those heart shaped emoji’s. I break out into my happy dance each time I have a comment (it’s not something you would want to see but it makes my wife smile). But the ultimate Nirvana is when (lo and behold), someone has cared enough to share my creation with their friends. To see there was at least one person that ‘got’ what I had to say is as good as it’s ever going to get.

I’ve thought about this a lot… I believe the greatest honor I could receive as an artist (and I use that term loosely) is to have someone know a piece of my work by heart. Or that someone might tell their children about a story I shared. Or I hear a group of friends sharing coffee at their local coffee shop and discussing some piece of my work.

We (the people who push our words out into the world to be criticized, analyzed and dissected) imagine these things even if they don’t really happen. In my imagination, I see a teenager sitting alone in the park reading my poetry and understanding that life is worth it after all. Sometimes, my mind dreams of two young lovers lying on a hillside in the bright afternoon sun, quoting my words to each other as they fall in love. Images like that are what I see with each comment, each like and each share.

So that is what keeps me going. For me, a small group of devoted fans is worth far more than selling a million books. Because fortunes fade, fame is fleeting, but good friendship will last forever.

Jerry Brotherton

The Backyard Poet

http://www.thebackyardpoet.com

©All Rights Reserved 2017

Welcome Friends

Welcome to The Backyard Poet

In my never-ending quest to show the world my foolish attempts at creativity, I have decided to join the blogging community with my new blog site ‘The Backyard Poet’. I know what you’re thinking. But Jerry, the river of information we call the internet is already jammed full and with so many blog sites out there now it’s dang near impossible to navigate it. Yet, here I am adding my two cents to the congestion anyway. But hey, the way I figure it, it really doesn’t cost you (as a reader) a thing. For me, it will only take a little more of my time and we all know that’s just about the only thing I can afford. I’m too old to do anything else anyway, so I might as well be pestering you. Besides, it’s another way for me to push my opinions onto an innocent and unsuspecting world.

So if you just washed your hair and there’s nothing on TV then jump on your phone, tablet or whatever device suits your fancy and go to www.thebackyardpoet.com to see what all the fuss is about. If you don’t find anything of value well, ‘No Harm No Foul’. Just maybe you’ll like what you see though. If so, sign up for the newsletter so you won’t miss out on anything. I would hate to see some great words of wisdom wasted. We all know there are a few things that I am full of and I don’t think they smell like wisdom.