Rambler's Way
There’s a folk song about rambling that I really like, especially in the version done with magnificent and professional simplicity by the baritone he-man-ness of Pernell Roberts. The title is “Rake and Ramblin’ Boy”, and the opening lyrics are:
Well, I’m a rake and a ramblin’ boy
There’s many a city I did enjoy
And now I’ve married me a pretty little wife
And I love her dearer than I love my life.
I feel fairly certain that Mr. Roberts felt fairly certain of the reality of those words when he sang them. Whether or not the “reality” — in real life — was very real, that’s a matter only he knew.
And that’s the way it ought to be.
The prying eyes and gossipy tongues of modern life are not new, but there are now entire industries that feed off of the flesh and pick the bones of Famous People, alive and dead. The point then for non-talented people is to become Famous — and get those flesh and bones in the Media Spotlight.
That obscene focus of a phoney media, fixated on the private lives of fabricated people — it has only reinforced my innate desire to protect my privacy.
Which is not a good thing for a writer, especially one of fiction! Who must self-promote!
The
times in which we live must be dealt with in two ways: warrior guts and artistic tenderness.
I think I’ve got both bases covered where facing that outside world is concerned. The inner world, that interior self, I keep it pretty much to myself, and I always have. There are many aspects of my being that have struck others as almost Machiavellian in the ways that life has worked out for me, but, honestly, honestly and truly, I’ve not planned most of the parts of my life that have turned out to be joyous and of constant and serene stability.
At heart, I’m a rambling girl, though not a rake!
