#2
~ Love / hate ~
♫ “Cross The Street” - JUNIOR VARSITY
/Hate
So my first venture into B”L0G>*InG (sick word) was almost exactly a year ago as I write this. I am interested in goal setting and the benefit / pointlessness / internalised productivity machine / heights of the human endeavour that goals seem to entail.
Should I do a blog at all if I am not going to do it once per week or per day or per per per?
Should I do it as often as or exactly when I feel ? Which in this case turns out to be when I nostalgically look through some of my own photos and writing and realise: holy shit it’s been a year since I wrote that first B±L!OGG!
If you do something you better do it well, or damn near perfect. Because the stick to beat yourself with is as light as a feather. Pick it up because you haven’t optimised your schedule to write a piece, edit it, and post it on a weekly cycle that rivals a software development pipeline.
I read a lot of Stephen Pressfield – and he reckons it is the job of a writer / creative / entrepreneur to get into that chair and churn it out like a blue-collar 9-5 job. Stepehen King never takes a day off. These men are afraid of the pesky bloat of resistance, procrastination and self-sabotage. I certainly can’t argue with them. But how do we get here from the love of the game?
Don't you want me
〰️
Don't you want me 〰️
For the love of it all
I have been writing things down – obviously since I was taught as a child. Thank you St John’s. Mrs Cornumple. But I have chosen to write, in my spare time since I was about 8 years old. I vividly remember coming up with a book idea called Kelcron’s Language; about an alien who had a secret language that would unlock the secrets and other languages of the universe. I think I wrote 4 pages. A5. Crayon. Denis Villeneuve would go on to steal and develop the idea in ‘Arrival’ years later. I never got over it. Except I keep writing. I write for pleasure. I write for laughs. I write for sanity. I write absolute bull-shit. What’s wrong with Bull’s shit anyway? Once it is on the page it isn’t in my head. I write to extract shards of glass from my brain and lay them out on the page – and in this case – shape it into something coherent. Like a vase, or an ashtray. Meaning; I will edit this, whereas anything I write for myself I simply splat out and close the book leaving a satisfying crunch behind.
So that must mean I love writing too. I must love it. I love reading. I love reading about writing. And right now I am writing about loving reading. If loving writing was wrong I would still want to write. This is facetious. Or fae-ces. These words must be related because they both sound like they are being spoken by an art critic with a distinct odour up their nose.
So I guess this is my ode to the love of writing > over the love of a weekly bl0*gh^&oG. That being said, please like and subscribe and create a fanbase that forces me to churn this love into a craft that irons my sanity and keeps me contributing verses ala Dead Poets Society. Good night.
