Me? Erma Bombeck? (Wow...I Thank You!)

Erma's Picture belongs to: prweb.com

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WOW is all I can say! I was publicly compared to one of the greatest female humorists in the world, and I thought I'd float to the stage to thank the man for saying I reminded him of my all-time favorite writer and hero. (If Erma had been an enlisted soldier she couldn't have meant more to me.)

I write from my heart, from my position in life, often times from my pocketbook! I tell stories that obviously relate to others and since we're all about family, friends, neighbors, and getting away with what we can - - maybe I am a bit like Erma. She had my attention growing up, maybe I took a little of her heart with me; along with her inked stained fingerprints on that keyboard of hers. I couldn't type fast enough or without the mistakes. You wouldn't want to read what I had to write if I had to write on a monster like that - but I used to. I remember holding the correction tape in place and using the backspace key - God, am I really that old?

My kids (like Erma's) give me fodder to write about. If I only sat around the house watching them fight, play, watching each other, and/or working things out for themselves I'd have more than enough to write about. I'd have volumes of things to bore you with - but somehow it works. Somewhere in the mix of all that I find nuts about my kids you think I'm like you - and that brings joy to me. That brings great pleasure to my heart. When you write me or stop me on the street to say you prayed for Reuben or Laura, or that Caity acts just like your little sister, I want to just reach out and hug you. OK...I apologize to that one man that I actually did reach out to hug - he looked too much like Sinise, I let my eyes get the best of me. His poodle gave me away. I had to stop the grip I had laid on him....slowly.

Truth is, I remember wanting to give up one of my own lungs for Erma when it was reported that she needed one. I was over 18 I think, but my parents were insistent that I keep both of my breathers right where they were - but I gave her love. I loved that woman to the end I know I did, and yes, I guess in my deepest of hearts I know that when I write I can see a little menacing face, a little broader smile coming through my writing - maybe a few well placed cherry pits...just to keep me on my toes.

When I write I write to you. I write to the world. I write to let it out. I write to get paid too, but so far that hasn't happened as much as the writing to get it out. Can you just imagine a room full of writers who didn't have access to pens? One without keyboards, without pencils, without scratch paper - we'd explode! I take my journal with me and fear that someones going to grab it and read it out loud - then I sort of place it in the middle of the table to see if anyone would? I live on the edge. I love a good adventure. I write in my journal as if fantasies are actually taking place in real time. I have to admit sometimes I would fear if they were read - but other times I just want to sit back and grin a little.

Before too long I'll be on the road writing and talking for a living. I know I will. I have the spirit of the best inside of these corpuscles - I will be great! You will love me! You will dream that you are me....hahaha, God, please help you if you do. The truth is, I'm the only me that I could ever be...wait, that's the title of my next book! "I'm The Only Me That I Could Ever Be", by Jude Stringfellow - buy it soon and tell me if you don't think I'm completely nuts. I must be, I had the best teacher bar-none!

Thank you Mr. Bob Syles for saying I reminded you of your hero. She's mine too.