Awkward. . .

Let's just be clear about this before tonight I was like 80-90% sure that one of you people that check this blog is named Alicia.

Tonight, a person by that same name on their way to falling to sleep said that I should start a blog, and then, I'm not sure if ironically, or seriously mentioned something about how I don't do "the non-fiction thing" and so it could just be a blog about what I'm writing, with writing samples on it or something like that, and it really made me question if she knew about this place.

Now, on the previous topic from a few My American Life about lying, I'm really trying to cut down the lying to people around me, but tonight I was faced with the weird, awkward fact about this blog. You see, I've written in this thing for a long time. This place is easily one of my better sized rant locations, but I love the fact that I haven't told anyone directly about it. I love the fact that for me, this is just a place that I go to write, and if people stumble into it and care to read they can, but I'm not going out of my way to advertise it.

The reason I like it is because it gives me a sense of freedom. I can do whatever I want here. I can write a poorly conceived five paragraph essay that I came up with while helping 8th graders while face first in a pillow with the screen an arm's length in front of me, and I don't care how many errors there are because it's this blog, and no one knows about it so it doesn't matter. This place, this weird place, is where I can rant about whatever I want, and I know (or at least like to convince myself) that no one is going to read it, and for me, that's a good thing.

It's a good thing for me to think that no one is going to read it, because it doesn't slow me down when I'm typing. It doesn't stop me and force me to edit, I can just write. If I advertised, if I put it out there that I had this, then I would force myself to make it look perfect, or at least as good as possible, because I would know that people would be checking it to see what quality of work I provide, and when I'm writing here I don't want to worry about that.

To put it in other art, this place is my sketch book. It's where I make sloppy mistakes, bounce around ideas, and have everything done roughly. It's a place for me to unload my brain, it is not a canvas ready to be shown.

It's a conflict.

I could easily turn to this and say, hey I already have a blog. I already have PAGES worth of my writing of whatever on here, and open it up for outside eyes. Or I could keep this little corner of the internet my sketch pad, ramble on about what I want to ramble on about, and let those that find it be able to find it.

Here, we'll do this happy medium ground on it all. No advertising on FB, no linking to it in interviews or resumes, but knowing that this is ran by google and google search results can do some fun things, we'll go this way and put these following words into this blog so it'll show up when people that know how to google and have my resume are looking for me, just might run into it.

Let's have a quick silent prayer that google puts this no higher than the second page of results when you search. I want them to be able to find it if they know what they're looking for, not for just any idiot to stumble into.

Adam Wesley Walters
305 N 200 W #1
Pleasant Grove, Utah 84062
adam.walters702@gmail.com

I'd put my number on here, but I'm only okay with strangers sending me body parts and feces in the mail and spam in my email, I don't need you freaks texting me at 6 in the morning (I originally wrote midnight there, but then realized that midnight really wouldn't be the worst time to text me seeing as right now it's 11:30), so we'll keep it to those.

If you're running into this page because you're smart and you ran the google search and ran here, welcome. This is nothing professional, it's purely personal. Look around, enjoy, and if you want a real writing sample, you know my contact information.


Final note - I don't care how she acted, I'm still going 80-90% sure that my wife knows about this.