Drama Club: Message in a bottle

Why do I write? The question becomes really important now that three copies of my memoir are setting on my parent’s porch. One for mom, one for dad, and one for my sister Candra. A book cover with two boys kissing in front of the Salt Lake City Mormon Temple. All the details I’d hidden from my family during high school – details about love and sex that have been only half-explained over the years are now in print ready for them to peruse 

How will they react? Will it embarrass them, make them proud, or some mixture of each? Since they are in it, I wanted them to see it before the rest of the world starts reading it.  

As if the rest of the world is going to read it. There’s that too. More fear. The fear that no one will want to read it.   

So why do I write? One word: survival.  

It was a solace when I was a teenager and continued through the tough years of my young adulthood. Putting pen to paper (that’s what we did back then) conjured magic. The angst inside my heart became lighter as words fell from my pen onto the paper. I felt legitimized and relevant. It was a message in a bottle to a distant future, a place where people were allowed to love who they love and be honored for expressing their passions for art and beauty. 

The message made it. I’m here. And after a phone call to my parents letting them know the books are waiting for them – even as they drive back from their time working in their local Temple – I know, and more importantly, I feel the unconditional love I had hoped against hope would be found if I just wrote it all down. Let’s hope they feel the same way after they’ve read it.  

It’s our fault.

We get what we deserve.

Whether it’s the Congress, the National Enquirer, or the baseless reality show on TV, it’s all our fault. It’s my fault and your fault.
It’s not the “media’s” fault.
The media is not some evil nebulous energy like the “dark side” of the Force in Star Wars. It is people like you and me clicking on a salacious link, leaving the gratuitous news reports on TV, voting for someone after only listening to attack adds, or telling our coworkers about the story we read in “ the paper” while waiting in the checkout lane and Ralph’s.
Until we realize that every one of those acts is a vote for that behavior to be celebrated, we deserve to have drug addicts celebrated and assholes elected as lawmakers.
Push yourself just a little and you’ll find that there is a lot more out there worth your time. When that becomes your focus, you will see a miraculous transformation in the “media.”