We all seem to be exhibitionists these days, not the pornographic type like leaving the blinds open while getting railed from behind by a hairy man named Jed so that a passing neighbor can catch a glance, you give 'em a wink and send shockwaves reverberating through your suburban wonderland, but instead, creating blogs so those we know and those we don't are able to read our 21st century, post-"I love Aaron" or Stephen or Christian version of a diary minus the heartshaped lock and key, with the expectation that our insights, ideas or implications are that much more groundbreaking or earthshattering than any of the other millions of people commenting on society and its oh-so-many foibles. What a narcissistic, egocentric, self-absorbed way of life we have these days and I am obviously no better, despite how much I'd argue that point. This is my obligitory "welcome to my blog about nothing" post where I am to explain that I'm writing this blog because I'm bored or because I have a lot to say, because Bailey's life is super thrilling or worth keeping tabs on. Clearly if the blog is about nothing, I am bored and my life is not worth keeping tabs on. It's not groundbreaking or earthshattering but perhaps I do have a lot to say, hence my attempt.
I fancy myself a writer and hope to someday be promoted to an author -which I hear comes with a heafty pay raise- but first need to be able, not to produce something of quality - because in this day of books written by Britney Spears and George W. Bush, we all know they'll publish just about any printable shit whether it's well written or not, so long as there's an audience for it- but instead to simply produce something complete. I have a vast and never ending collection of story beginnings which I can't throw out because they're all promising enough that upon completion and editing they could quite possibly be my entrance into the world of real writers. I can't seem to write fiction past a strong introduction and prefer instead to incriminate myself and my associates in something resembling more like autobiographical fiction where the names have been changed to protect the not-remotely-innocent from everyone except themselves and those who know them. Writing for me is a labor of life. It's like exercise, I know I'll feel better if I just make myself do it, but I can come up with thousands of things to do instead. Everything needs to be perfect in order for me to sit down and write, it can't be too cold and it can't be too hot, it can't be too sunny or too nice a day, I can't write when I'm sober, I can't write when I'm drunk, I can't write if there are people in the room or if there are no distractions, I can't write if I can't sit cross legged or if I'm wearing jeans, essentially I can't write except under perfect conditions, but just like Joseph Heller said "Every writer I know has trouble writing" so I suppose I shouldn't feel so badly.
I think it's about time for me to cease my babbling regarding the trials of authorship thus I will leave you with this, taken from a quote by Bennett Cerf, co-founder of Random House Publishing:
"Coleridge was a drug addict. Poe was an alcoholic. Marlowe was killed by a man whom he was treacherously trying to stab. Pope took money to keep a woman's name out of a satire then wrote a piece so that she could still be recognized anyhow. Chatterton killed himself. Byron was accused of incest. Do you still want to be a writer?"
...Yeah, me too.
