The internet has set the creative writer free in many people, for good or for ill. I started a blog to share my photos and my loving thoughts about the Flint Hills. There are many far better sites dedicated to the Flint Hills, with much better photography and more knowledgeable writing, and they are hosted on a better format than blogspot.com.
So, as time went on, more immediate things occurred that I wanted to write about, to sort through in my mind. Writing does that. It clarifies and organizes my thinking around an idea or a question or an event. It became easier to write about things other than the Flint Hills.
I have always aspired to be a writer. I went to college to major in journalism. I was going to be the best investigative reporter and make a name for myself. I discovered it was far easier to smoke pot with the anarchists and play foosball in Brothers Tavern than to attend class. Rather than wrestling with facts, I wrote poetry. It comes far more easily. It does not even have to be true. I wrote my first poetry in third grade. It was such a good poem Mrs. Deere questioned if I had written it on my own. F*** you, Mrs. Deere!
Forty nine years later, my outraged inner artist at last finds expression.
Bob, my best friend's husband, stole one of my poems and turned it in as his own work. He was given an A in a graduate class for my work, word for word. When an historic building on campus was lost to arson, Bob always came to mind when I imagined who could do such a deed. F*** you too, Bob, you subversive piece of shit. You deserve to be manager of Walmart.
This is what happens when you write! You never know where it will lead.
Remembering Plagiarist Bob opened a can of worms and has entirely side tracked me. So....