I became aware of this because a commenter on my previous entry mentioned it. This tells you how on-the-fucking-ball I am lately, when readers have to mention significant dates to me. I mean come ON, I’m mister significant dates. Today marks four years of blogging; four years of the pain and pleasure that is The […]
I became aware of this because a commenter on my previous entry mentioned it. This tells you how on-the-fucking-ball I am lately, when readers have to mention significant dates to me. I mean come ON, I’m mister significant dates.
Today marks four years of blogging; four years of the pain and pleasure that is The Moronosphere.
But as with the new year, it’s seemed that I don’t have much to say about milestones lately. Maybe, to steal a quote from Iandiana Jones, It’s not the years, honey, it’s the mileage. Maybe I’ve just had too many milestones and they’re getting smaller with perspective.
Or maybe it’s a symptom of everything else lately, the motivational drain of too much have to and not enough want to. I can’t seem to get worked up much lately unless there’s sex involved, and I can’t seem to get the sexuality lined up with the creativity to turn that into something that lasts longer than few orgasms.
Who th’ fuck knows, y’know?
Four years blogging. I’m not even sure what to say of it. I was surprised to be still at it after one, amazed after two, and still thrilled with what this whole experience has given me in terms of friends made and experiences had, not to mention with the pleasure of simply having an audience for my words. At three, I had les to say, simply observing that it’d been a Long, Strange Trip.
At four I find still less to say on the matter; but maybe that’s because in the last year, my written output has radically decreased from the previous year.
I find myself compelled to graph this:
And yes, I spenty 20 minutes goofing with excel for that, as a way of avoiding writing more words (you know the ratio of worth, pictures to words, after all).
Yet, what I see when I graph this isn’t that my output has dropped near zero, as I expected. It was dropped to near 2004, but that is certainly not zero. This in some way gives me hope; it tells me I’m not done with this. I considered graphing by months, but that I fear would show me an unfavorable curve, and I think I won’t look at that, at least not today.
What I will do, though, is set myself a challenge; I *must* write something fictional before January is gone, even if it’s only a scene or a bit of dialog. I do not need to *finish* it, but I need to publish it here, just to prove to myself I haven’t lost the gift of it, and I guess to say fuck you you fucking fuck to my recalcitrant muse. I’ve tended to use distractions and workload and issues with attention span to justify not writing; I must stop that. I must write, even if it’s only a few words. After all, so the anecdote has it, James Joyce once sat disconsolate in his study when a friend dropped by. “I’ve only written seven words today”, Joyce told him. “But James”, reassured his friend, “Seven words is a good day for you”. “Yes,” wailed Joyce, “But I don’t know which order they go in”.
If seven words were good for James Joyce, I should count it a success if I can make a baker’s dozen.
(thanks to Taro’s Travels for that quote, I couldn’t quote recall it)