And we dream.

K K Weakley

Life as a writer.

What does it mean to be a writer? Many things of course, yet it always comes back to the feel of the keys beneath your fingers, the pages filling with your thoughts, as they leap from your mind out onto the screen before you. Only what then? Do you take a deep breath when the job is done, or do you save those words, and start all over again?

For me it is both, but let me explain.

There are thousands – millions of writers in the world. Some have faces we know, names we race to pick up at the local bookstore, or from the internet, but they all started the same as the next person who writes that very first line. The virgin writer, who sees the world of publishing as one of wonder. Yet to figure out there is so much more than ever anticipated.


"What an astonishing thing a book is. It's a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts on which are imprinted lots of dark squiggles. But one glance at it and you're inside the mind of another person, maybe somebody dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, an author is speaking clearly and silently inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic."

[Cosmos, Part 11: The Persistence of Memory (1980)]


How true a statement that humans are indeed capable of magic. In the end being a writer, or having the wish to write is determind by the words of Cosmos. 

What more is there to say?

Life is full of questions.

For those who like me grew up in the early 80's and 90's, enjoying the daily bursts of “Let’s play with Barbies” wasn't exactly out of the ordinary. As an adult I have no choice but the ask the crucial questions. One being, where was Kens you know what? Clears throat. Barbie had her breasts all a show, not an ounce of shame to be had, and there was Ken, smooth plastic and not as bulge in sight. EXACTLY like Barbie. Not to mention his flamboyant shirts and fabulous hair blowing in the wind – had there been any wind. (I digress) My second question is, as children did we even see his invisible member as a problem? Or did we just take it as being – normal? Was this what a boy looked like, and was this what I would look like when I got to Barbies age? What is Barbies age by the way? Anyone? What was more pressing was this. Was G.I Joe exactly like Ken? The answer is YES, he is. I looked. What was even more interesting was the fact that unlike my male friends at the young age of Barbie and Ken years, not once did I giggle about Kens bits and pieces as they would Barbies breasts. Why? Because the man didn’t have any! That brings me to my final question. Did Ken not have a penis because they assumed young girls would be horrified and disgusted? Or was it because the person who came up with the idea of Ken in the first place had an issue with his own male appendage? Would it have looked like the great statue of David, the mindset that this was what a male body looked like, yet if so, why did Ken not have his manhood intact? I have to assume as an adult that Ken, had he a say in the matter would have opted for at least a small penis to fill the smoothness that was his lack of manliness. Yet, who was going to make fun of him? G.I Joe? I think not! In turn, Ken makes me wonder if he, in some ways was in fact a role model for the young boys who found themselves wondering about life as they knew it. Did these children, just like me play with Barbie and Ken and think – “He is perfect! Barbie is a slut, and G.I Joe is just some guy who thinks rolling around in the mud with his gun is cool.” Isn’t it strange how our mindset can alter with age, when something as simple as playing with dolls can make you question the same dolls that brought you so much joy in your young years, where bias wasn’t part of your vocabulary. Nor did you understand what it meant. In conclusion, I am still clueless as to why Ken had no Pickle, Beef thermometer, Ding Dong, Jackhammer, Twig and Berries – whatever you want to call it. And if he did, would it have left me traumatized for life, or would I have just ignored it?