Monday, April 4, 2011

If I said Lynyrd Skynyrd liked Spaghetti, they would Care More

I now understand exactly why I write.


I’ve realized that when I talk, the person who is supposedly listening is always doing something else and by the time the story is getting really good that person has moved on from listening to me, to now operating on their own agenda. They are forming the question seconds before they ask it, so I have not only lost them when they speak, but well before that moment.

Who am I kidding? I thought I was writing to be recognized for my wit, my ability to tell a story, to entertain.  Instead, I am just writing so I can complete a sentence without being interrupted. Sometimes that doesn’t even go well for me. I am always reading back what I wrote realizing my errors were the result of constant interruptions.

Tonight I was relaying why I had a bad moment at work. It was a great story. A story of – “holy c$#@, I can’t believe I did that”, to sheer panic, to worry and then immense relief. There was even a math lesson in my story. But even with that, it was a GOOD story.

There I am, telling it, feeling like I have avid listeners, they were making eye contact (well, I got a glance anyway) when the hubby begins to ask who wants ricotta cheese on their spaghetti, and all of a sudden my avid audience is now focusing on their food and asking each other questions about school.


How I Felt

I was just at the good part! No one even wanted to know what the outcome was! They all had moved on. I hadn’t even closed my mouth yet from the last sentence and they had moved on.

They didn’t even realize I was upset, let alone the story was hanging in mid-air, slowly evaporating into the steam from their food.

Even as I write this, someone has just asked me if I know why Lynyrd Skynyrd is called Lynyrd Skynyrd.

WHO THE HELL CARES! I have a story to tell over here.

(it was their gym teacher Leonard Skinner –who had a strict rule against long hair) I figured you would want to know and wouldn’t be able to pay attention to my writing until I told you…..


Leonard with Lynyrd

To make matters worse, the story, now in its incomplete, untold stage, kind of sucks. There is no point in starting it over; no one will quite understand it now.

That my friends, is why I write.

(and have small internal baby temper tantrums)

10 comments:

.bec said...

I completely feel you! There are days when I have no other choice but to assume my voice is inaudible to my family. I resort to pretending like I can't speak when they need me to do something for them and, if I reply at all, do so by post-it...Rainbow Brite post-it.

Teresa - in the Middle Side of Life said...

hugs... that's why we listen to each other - for moral support.

Oilfield Trash said...

Great post.

When Pigs Fly said...

I can totally understand. I sometimes feel that way when I'm talking to my husband and he's busily typing an e-mail on his phone. Kind of listening but kind of not. I usually end up forgetting about whatever I've tried to talk about. It's never very good the second time around.

The Schweitzers said...

Wow, I can totally relate. Actually, my husband can too. We're usually interrupted by the bullet fire of, "mom, mom, mom, MOM!" The difference between he and I? I'll get a moment and say, "What were you saying?" And he can't remember. Eh, must not have been that important.

Kate said...

Um...I want to know the work story.

I have to say, I am often the non-listening culprit. And when I notice my family not listening, I tend to stop talking and just wait to see if they notice. Which they don't. Or they do, but they're so grateful for the silence that they don't mention it for fear that I'll speak again.

"Miss Bee" said...

This is possibly the best explanation for blogging that I've ever come across. Well, maybe not the BEST, but certainly the one that I can relate to the most.

And is the thing about Lynyrd Skynyrd true? Didn't know that.

A Cappelli said...

I totally feel you- not being allowed to finish a story, or realizing that you wrote "dumb fart" in the middle of a perfectly beautiful sentence because that is what one of the boys keeps yelling at his brother in the other room. I am sorry, but I am glad for the interruptions in your house because we all get to read your wonderfully relatable stories- which make me feel a little less alone in the world.

Cheeseboy said...

This is what blogging is for. Wait, were you saying something? What was that about food and cheese?

Stacey said...

Gah, I hate that. There are so many times I'm in the middle of a story and people just start talking like I don't exist. I always feel awkward and embarrassed as I trail off, aware that nobody cares.