Gods of Advertising

You walk through your house singing U2 or humming the theme from I Dream of Genie. Inane or sublime, the content literally could be anything. And often is. Usually it’s just the chorus. Rarely do you even get the words right. But you sing. Your family hears you. Does it reassure them? Dad is always singing. He must be happy. Or does it make them nervous? What’s up with father? He’s out of work. He had to sell our house and rent another. Shouldn’t he be miserable? It’s inappropriate. Whistling in the graveyard is bad luck. Hasn’t he had enough of that already?

Apparently not.

You sang all the time at work. Told jokes too… all kinds of jokes and all kinds of songs. Even during stressful times. What did people think? That you were ecstatic? Or weird? Probably both.

(Author’s note: This is a small section from an autobiographical novel I have been writing for some time. It’s looking for a home. Would you like to read more? Or maybe there is something I can help you write?)