Earlier this month on Facebook, I wrote:
One of my brothers can build you a great-looking house. The other can wire up all the electricity, making it bright and temperate. And then I can hole up in your spare room to write pithy Facebook posts, emerging occasionally to check your cupboards for graham crackers.
True story.
Some make houses. Some make things to read, watch, listen to, think about, etc., once you’re in them. Some make both, probably. (Curse those people, making the rest of us look bad.) But there’s always a certain amount of discomfort in difference, in diverging from the family line and resetting expectations of what one’s contribution will be.
Here’s a short lyric about doing your own thing, which for me means… doing this thing I’m doing now, i.e. writing. How very self-referential.