Write for the love of Pete! Read for the love of Waffles.

  Occasionally I'll find myself standing in front of the bookcase more interested in the neatly packed book covers rather than actually reading them. There is something psychologically rewarding about a collection of books. They are physical proof that you have, in the past, taken the time to travel and buy them and then pass out after reading eleven pages.  I'm a hypocrite though. I buy books at Good Will for mere cents and add them to my collection assuming that somewhere down the road I will want to read Bill Clinton's MY LIFE.  The book was cheap and there seemed to be value in understanding why Bill Clinton decided on politics instead of a career in pornography. 
   It has more to do with ego than anything else. I can casually usher a guest past my collection and be asked the inevitable question about why I have the Twilight Series. Oh, those are my kids' books. My collection of brilliant and thought provoking books by far out number the Tween books but those are the ones the guest sees first.  Then I become the Dad who wears the Micky Mouse shirts voluntarily and watches kids movies when they are in bed.  In other words, creepy. 
   Yes, I am male and I read the Feminine Mystique. Why? I don't know. I was bored and the cable was out.  Reading it became a task. A mission even. Damned it, this book will not beat me. Along the way my brain took a smoke break and my eyes ended up doing more than their fair share of the work. The writing was dense and made all women seem far more mysterious and exciting than I can understand as a dense male. I'm fairly certain the book isn't considering the Waffle House waitress with the nicotine stained lower lip. Then again, I've had better conversations with waitresses worthy of printed text than any of the blow dried debutantes of high society.  Of course, my wife is exciting but that's because she yells at me when I don't take the trash down to the curb. I kid, honey. You blow my skirt up daily.  I love you. And I love you, Waffle House waitresses.
   We men aren't off the hook though. Inevitably the woman who owns a copy of Feminine Mystique will be married to a man who owns a book on Golf technique and the life of Arnold Palmer. If men are the ones who start all the wars and invent things like the wing suit for skydivers then why do we read Golf books? I can proudly say that there are no books in my collection that instruct one to play professional Badminton. However, there are books written by former Navy Seals, feminist biologists, gay and lesbian writers, conspiracy theorists, politicians, ecologists, and yes, Tween genre writers. Diversity is what I love about my collection. I can peek my pea brain into the lives of people I'll never be and never had the desire to be. I can read about DNA coding for breakfast and by lunch I'm discovering that I may be in favor of cutting a fellow climber loose to save my own life. I've never considered it but when I finally make it to the Alps I'll know what to do in case of an emergency. Cut away. I never claimed to be heroic.  It's a tough world.
   I find immense pleasure in the mundane as David Sedaris describes it. His ability to  the get the reader to see life through his eyes is awe inspiring. You have to admire the dedication of a writer who intentionally puts him/herself in uncomfortable situations in order to fully understand and write about it. Aside from being a Macy's Elf at Christmas one year, he also  volunteered as a morticians's assistant. Now that is interesting.  
   Sure, there are plenty of situations in real life worthy of writing about.  Every, single, solitary conversation I have with my co-workers is novel worthy. Combine a spoiled and pretentious mid-twenty with an early forty ex-stripper and you have entertainment. Spoiled looks to Stripper for perverse humor, and Stripper admires Spoiled for her youth and a longing to be innocent again. I'm confident that I can expend several thousand words writing about the life of a convenient store sidewalk, but what's in it for me? The writer has to be emotionally involved to make an impact with the reader. Describing a dried up bubble gum wad on the sidewalk in exhausting detail is fun, sure. But what in God's name does it have to do with the fact that you, the reader, is out of toilet paper? Nothing. That, my friend, is news.             Readers are selfish, unlike myself who is gullible enough to read anything in print. Readers want to read a reflection of their ideas of themselves. Tweens want to read Twilight because they want to fall in love…with a Werewolf. Young women read fashion because they are at the stage where they want to attract men and solidify their self esteem. Men read action and DIY because we all like to think of ourselves as brave and heroic, and capable of taking the trash down to the street. Older women read, well, I don't know what older women want. Maybe younger men. They read smut. Anyway, we must give the reader what he/she wants and here is the big secret. If you write about what you want, then you are also writing about what "they" want. Be yourself. Be weird. Be stupid. Be alive.