Surprising Realizations, Again

Pileated Woodpecker, this big boy's body is about 2 feet long

Hairy Woodpecker

I'm feeling kinda dumb. All this hullaballoo about bio writing and making a schedule is just silly. Why do I continue to get caught up by self-created stumbling blocks? That's two questions, really. Why do I create the stumbling blocks and then why do I fall over them? I need a little cartoon character to sit on my shoulder, I'm picturing the cute little hairy woodpecker above, and hit me on the head with an oversized hammer from time to time. The knock on the noggin needs to be accompanied by a shout in my ear, "Hello? Anyone home?" Maybe that one-two punch would bring me to my senses and jog my memory.

It took a dream to set me straight about writing my bio. In this dream, I was invited to New York to give a talk. The organization doing the inviting arranged and paid for my travel and accommodations, but neglected to tell me what I was expected to talk about. All I knew was that there was going to be an event with a large audience and I was supposed to give an introduction. I figured I would have time to meet with the event organizers before the talk, find out the topic of my introduction, and prepare accordingly. Due to travel delays in dreamland, I arrived at the theatre as the event was about to start. I took an aisle seat near the podium. Not until the event organizer introduced me did I know what was expected of me - a scholarly introduction to a medley of Marx brothers films.

Thankfully, I woke up at this point. I honestly can't say for sure whether or not I've ever seen a Marx brothers film. I can say for certain that I do not have a clue about the history of film. Or comedy for that matter. How is this wacky dream related to writing a bio? Simple. In writing a bio I am not standing in front of an audience being asked to speak about something of which I have no knowledge. In writing a bio I am describing the one thing I know most about in the world, me. And all that angst about having to reveal my innermost being? Duh-uh. No one wants to know that stuff. Well, I don't want to know that stuff about other artists. I usually think it's beside the point. And when total strangers reveal too much, too soon, it's uncomfortable at best. See, this would have been a lot simpler if Harry the woodpecker could have given me a couple of well-timed hammer blows to the head.

I'll get to thoughts on schedule making later. Right now my head hurts from too many cranium crunches.