Time is like a film strip in one of those old film cans stored away on a shelf. You can go back in time, but only if you can find the right can and hold the strips up to the light. Time is not like a movie which can be rewound and watched again in complete here and now detail. Film strips and bright light is all I have for my memory, but it all feels like it was yesterday.
It was yesterday when I moved to a beautifully small town outside of Atlanta Georgia to write my memoirs as I knew them to be. I planned to do a lot in Georgia and stay for an extended period of time, but instead the universe had other waves for me to ride. Instead of doing all that much I wrote myself silly throughout the spring of 2009.
It was the only way I could get it down on paper in one epic tale. Any distractions would have set me in a spin as I had the most difficult time stringing the film strips in my mind together. I wrote of my birth and childhood. I brought out some very special torturous memories. I had thankfully come far enough to view those moments with disconnected reverence. I wrote from morning to night, got drunk and did it all again in the morning.
The point of the book was the making of the Internet’s first super star. I was and will always be one of many Internet super stars. I didn’t know it at the time. I didn’t even know it after the Internet and my image, my words, had made me bank. I did know it after it all had come to a curtain fall. Atlanta was the end of Act I, everyone please come back after intermission.
In the book titled In Bed with Myself I told stories of our antics in the late 90’s and early 21st Century. We had so much fun being webcam whores, living our lives on Internet camera. The crazy amount of travel and human connections that were formed thanks to it all. I talked about the struggle to have my art known. I discussed the many who retired early, gave up the ghost and became ghosts. Some of them died so very early and so very tragically. We had our own little VH-1 Behind the Music and nobody even knew about it, about us.
I’ve still got tons of copies and I don’t know who has read the book. It’s always a bizarre interaction when I find it on someone’s coffee table or hear that someone I didn’t know actually enjoyed it. I did a great big marketing push and poured the money into the machine as I left Atlanta. I returned to the west coast which viciously welcomed me back into its loving money-driven arms. I’ve sold hundreds of copies and have given away hundreds more in hopes that a story about my early life journey will be recorded.
Writers don’t make any money unless you’re one of those writers. I’m not Stephen King or Ann Rice with a nice down payment by the publishing house for my prolific words of wisdom. I’m just one of those human beings whom had an experience. I don’t write to sell books. I write so words get into books, into minds and remain archival monuments of the human I had the chance to be.
It’s been a long six years since I wrote that book. Those six years forever ago are as clear as yesterday to me. I can see the film strips of my past very well when I hold them up to the light.
In Bed with Myself was recently published on the Amazon Kindle platform for anyone with a tablet or installed reader. I’ll probably always be one of those people screaming the praises of print on paper in bound archived stitching. But the world now reads books on digitized leaves and this is the way things go. The story of the Internet’s first super star returns to where it began, the Internet.
The meaning to life is to live it fully. The secret to immortality is to etch yourself into the memories of everyone you can. Our images and our words will never completely survive if we do not have the power of word of mouth to back us up into the brains of our fellow creatures.