Saturday, January 16, 2010


I am twenty minutes into setting this blog up and I'm already considering abandoning it. I would clearly make an abominable parent.

I am generally sick of writing for an audience. There is an impulse that wells in me when blogging to write as though I'm on stage before my subject, my parents, my friends, my rivals, my enemies, and a faceless crowd not totally unlike the children from The Wall. This is an impulse to be fought at all costs.

The reasons for doing so are two-fold. One: I really enjoy blogging and if it's work to me than it's not worth doing. Two: Perhaps removing self-consciousness from blogging will ease up my fiction writing, which, since we're being not self-conscious here, I have always felt was stilted by a similar impulse.

Even now I'm fighting the urge to go back and reread all that I have written already. I don't want to appear weak in any way, I suppose.

It would be best, I imagine, if I informed you, you who I do not yet have a name for, what I plan to do here. I plan to write daily (Yes, daily) about different odds and ends, mostly pertaining to writing and literature, but in no way binding myself to any particular subject.

You can expect my response to every novel I read. Mostly you can expect, well, Grievances and Ruminations. A wonder that wasn't taken. I suppose not many people ruminate anymore. They Think. It just occurs to me know how ugly of a word that is. Think.

I feel compelled to say "I will try to be funny", or "I hope this entertains you" or "I will try to think linearly." but though I mean these things, they are irrelevant. You, unnamed thing, are a captive audience. I can do with you as I like.

If you were expecting a graceful landing there isn't one. This is my face hitting the mat.

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