Excuses, self-doubt and other things nobody gives a shit about
So I made this goal, or at least plan, for 2010 to start writing
again. And I ostensibly said I’d try to write something every day,
although I’m pretty sure even when I wrote that I knew it was
basically a lie. But nevertheless it’s kind of indicative of myself
anyway that I didn’t keep up with a schedule I’d made for myself. I
mean I’m hardly known for my slavish adherence to plans and like,
order and such. I think basically the main thing is, I’m sort of afraid people will
actually pay attention to my writing. Which is why I tend more toward
emo bloggery and less toward actual like, writing. Mainly when I was a
youth in high school, one of the few things people ever said to me was
that my writing was good. I’m still sort of afraid that it was a sort
of “big fish/small pond” thing, or at least that it’s all just
atrophied away in the intervening years. So if I never let anyone see
it, they can never tell me that I suck, and I can continue to believe
that it’s this awesome talent I have that I’ve just never done
anything with. Sort of along the lines of “better to be silent and be
thought a fool, rather than open your mouth and remove all doubt”. And so I’m not sure exactly what I intend by writing. I mean on the
one hand I don’t intend anything: it’s just something I used to enjoy;
it, like so many other things, fell by the wayside over the past…
oh, many years… and now I’m rediscovering many things and
discovering a lot of new ones to boot. So I don’t really intend
anything, I don’t expect it’ll come to anything apart from maybe a
little bit of creativity, make my old, rusted-out brain start working
again, and maybe on the off chance anyone is paying attention, to
entertain someone a little bit. On the other hand, there’s a reason I guess that it’s so hard for me.
The easy answer is it’s just self-consciousness as always. So the
answer I suppose is, to keep going, keep trying, and damn the schedule
and damn what anyone says (or doesn’t say) and just keep trying. Or I could just punt and keep writing navel-gazing blogosity, which
technically counts as writing (if only in the barest sense of the
word)… :P
again. And I ostensibly said I’d try to write something every day,
although I’m pretty sure even when I wrote that I knew it was
basically a lie. But nevertheless it’s kind of indicative of myself
anyway that I didn’t keep up with a schedule I’d made for myself. I
mean I’m hardly known for my slavish adherence to plans and like,
order and such. I think basically the main thing is, I’m sort of afraid people will
actually pay attention to my writing. Which is why I tend more toward
emo bloggery and less toward actual like, writing. Mainly when I was a
youth in high school, one of the few things people ever said to me was
that my writing was good. I’m still sort of afraid that it was a sort
of “big fish/small pond” thing, or at least that it’s all just
atrophied away in the intervening years. So if I never let anyone see
it, they can never tell me that I suck, and I can continue to believe
that it’s this awesome talent I have that I’ve just never done
anything with. Sort of along the lines of “better to be silent and be
thought a fool, rather than open your mouth and remove all doubt”. And so I’m not sure exactly what I intend by writing. I mean on the
one hand I don’t intend anything: it’s just something I used to enjoy;
it, like so many other things, fell by the wayside over the past…
oh, many years… and now I’m rediscovering many things and
discovering a lot of new ones to boot. So I don’t really intend
anything, I don’t expect it’ll come to anything apart from maybe a
little bit of creativity, make my old, rusted-out brain start working
again, and maybe on the off chance anyone is paying attention, to
entertain someone a little bit. On the other hand, there’s a reason I guess that it’s so hard for me.
The easy answer is it’s just self-consciousness as always. So the
answer I suppose is, to keep going, keep trying, and damn the schedule
and damn what anyone says (or doesn’t say) and just keep trying. Or I could just punt and keep writing navel-gazing blogosity, which
technically counts as writing (if only in the barest sense of the
word)… :P
In which I blog five things of decreasing interest
ONE: This is a wedding cake. It is made of EPIC WIN: 
(this comes via @skweeds on teh Twitter who got it from this blog:
http://www.greatwhitesnark.com/2009/10/08/steampunk-wedding-cake-geeky-cake/) TWO: This week has been crap. Firstly in that my car requires epic
repairs, which is always a major downer. But on the bright side, I
actually have the money to fix it without too much financial hardship,
and it’s still less than what the car’s worth or what I’d pay for a
decent newer car. So that part is inconvenient but manageable. And I
have a car available to me to borrow for the period, so it hasn’t even
interrupted the actual operation of my life all that much.
done all sorts of unkindness, and also whom it is exhausing, awkward,
emotionally draining and painful to be around. All of which, totally
my fault, so I should lie in my own bed. But nevertheless, it has made
parts of the week fairly stressful. And the weekend is just all kinds
of up in the air. To which I’m just going to punt and do what makes me
happy. Because you only live once and damn it all if I’m going to
spend the next 13 years like I spent the last 13: living in such a way
that, on my death bed I’d be likely to say “damn I wish I’d lived
better”. THREE: So, about that. I mean, despite the fact that changing my
living circumstances has had a huge and major positive impact on my
life, I’m still fucking nutty as a fruitbat. I just am. The chemicals
in my brain, they ain’t right. So like, I occasionally run down this
rabbit hole of like anxiety and depression, and I just want to be all
contrite to those who have to read about it, or especially those who
have to endure it (all one of you! hi!). But it’s still like…
compared to abject depression it’s a victory. And just as a like, pointless egotistical soul-searching aside, it’s
been kind of great. Part of me still knows that a lot of the victories
I’ve had are probably at the expense of someone else… but like, I
live with less clutter and own less stuff. Which for a long period of
my life was anathema. Been a bit of a packrat. Now, I still do acquire
and consume, but less so. And I do more. Like, I bought a camera. And
I take pictures all the time (not this week, but generally). So it’s a
process. And so… I know I got to this place by just kind of leaving a lot of
stuff behind, and just leaving the clutter. But fuck - it wasn’t going
anywhere, anyway. In some ways I’ve learned to be selfish. In another
way, I’ve learned to not care, but in a good way. FOUR: Part of my wants to extend that. I mean at this point, other
than like, student loans, I’m basically free from obligations. But
there are still some lingering. And I don’t think I could ever pull a
Jack Kerouac and just go, I dunno. Maybe I could. There was a time
when I thought I could never do what I’ve already done. But I did. FIVE: Which, sorry for the obliqueness there. I’m still not quite
comfortable spilling out explicit details on my life. I mean I realize
that it’s probably trivial to read between the lines if you care. And
also I know that nobody does care, or if they do they already know.
I’m not actually all that private, but also this little blog or
whatever is, technically, completely public so. Y’know. Talk to me in
person if you care and don’t understand, or want to hear like,
emo-style venting. And so, because I’ve crossed fully into “pointless shit nobody cares
about” and also because of the Law of Fives, I’ll stop there. Except
to say, today’s Oscar Wilde’s birthday, and Oscar was awesome. That is
all.
