The Secret

This morning it occurred to me that I did not have a post titled The Secret.  So, without further ado, I introduce to you a post titled "The Secret".  Now the hard part - writing The Secret.  We all have them.  Some are simple and not really hurting anyone.  And some are spectacular.  Larger than life.  If people found out there would be chaos in the street and rabbits would be hopping all over the place.  I, like most men, have a few secrets.  Some are simple and others are so spectacular ... blah, blah, blah.  One in particular I am asked about at least once a day.  The question goes like this, "Rueuhy, what's your secret -  How do you write so much?"  After someone asks me a question like that I contact the NSA and get as much information as I can about them.  Just the other day I found out Suzanne B. Anthony was actually placing a lot of calls to Tom Newark in New Jersey.  The NSA didn't know why but she was being monitored.  And let me be clear on this - Susan does use AT&T after switching from T-Mobile.  Why did Susan switch?  Was it the coverage area?  Did she get a good deal on a phone?   After clearing it with the NSA I called Susan back and told her my secret.  After I told her I made inquiries about her phone usage that day. Would you believe she did not call one person about what I had told her?  This totally goes against normal human behavior.  Isn't it normal behavior to contact your friends and family when you've got some real juicy news to report?  Well, to simplify things, and to get people to quit nagging me with this question I figured I would just write it for all to see.  The reason I am able to write so much and make it as interesting as possible is this -  many years ago a man came to my door and handed me a briefcase filled with sheets of paper with code on them.  For the next twenty years I would spend hours looking at those pieces of paper and trying to break the code on them.  "If only I could figure out the code on them.", I would tell myself.  My kids would come to the bathroom and door, and knock, and ask, "Daddy, are you almost done in there?  We have to brush our teeth before we go to bed."  I would yell back "Yeah, just as soon as you tell me what the code means."  They would mumble "Night Daddy" and go off to bed.  After twenty years of spending hours every night after work to try to figure out the code it finally hit me what it all meant.  I was never meant to figure out the code.  And I would find out five years after this that the man who showed up at my door was really just a guy named Steve from two blocks over who was just playing a practical joke.  So how does this answer the question of "How do I write so much?"  Well, it doesn't really but it was kind of interesting.  And that's the secret.  After 40+ years of living outside of the cave my parents raised me in, I have discovered that writing just simply comes out of the imagination and creativity center of the brain.  It actually just comes naturally to me like a kitty drawn to a gnawed lamp cord that's plugged in just waiting for their curiosity to kick in.  For some reason my brain's just wired for it.  And if I don't let the words out then my deepest fear is another briefcase will show up at the door. And this time it won't be Steve delivering it.  (Que the dramatic music and blackout)