We've all read about Johanna Melaragno's trip home from the retreat. She talked to a woman at the airport whose husband works with Kenny Chesney; her conversation garnered her an invite backstage sometime to meet that cute little hunk in a cowboy hat. Okay, so I might be a tad jealous. After all, Johanna got Kenny Chesney and I got the flu. Calvin came down with the bug the day after we got home from Asheville and 48-hours later, I was sick, too.
Even so, let's think about Kenny Chesney for a bit, not that that's any hardship. How many times do you think he socks that hat on his head while standing in front of a mirror until he gets it just as he wants it? We, of the older set, refer to it as a rakish angle. Or would that be a smoldering angle? Hmm... Even things that look simple require practice, don't they?Like creating characters and storylines; the more we do it, the easier it becomes. Or so I tell myself as I beat my head against the wall trying to pound my characters into submission. But I'm not blogging about writing today. Or am I?
When Kenny straps on that guitar and strums a chord, we have no concept of the number of times he's done that same thing, to say nothing of the hours spent in practice. Like the song lyrics to one of Bryan Adams' songs: Got my first real six-string...Bought it at the five-and-dime...Played it till my fingers bled...Was the summer of '69... We have no clue of the artist's sacrifice and hard work. We only see or hear the beautiful end result.As writers we, too, are artists. We paint with words. We play with passions and sing with similes and syntax. We create. Let's not belittle what we do. Kenny brings us enjoyment; we do the same for our readers.
So, back to my pouting mantra this past week as I swallow an antibiotic or pop-in another cough drop: "Johanna got Kenny Chesney and I got the flu."
