I’ve always phant’sied* myself a writer. I even wrote a novel-length manuscript once; the story embarrasses me, now. Back in the Paleolithic, when I was in 9th grade, an English teacher had us all write on an index card what we wanted to be “when we grew up”. At the end of the school year, she showed us her favourite answers, of which mine was one. I had written that I wanted to be a “Wrighter”. I still can’t spell too goodly, but modern software helps hide my ignorance. Well… maybe not.
Blogging feeds the writer in me. Frustrated for decades, my muse has had to make do with inventing cutting remarks and insults, blindsiding innocents and perpetrators indiscriminately. You’ve noticed that, you say. Now, I can attempt to restrain my muse with more socially acceptable writing practices. That’s right, just like your doctor, I am practising on you. I promise I won’t charge you anything for the dubious pleasure of being my sounding board.
Also, writing is cathartic. As I practice my meditation, I have become aware of the vast quantities of garbage that has been recirculating in my cranium. Time to purge myself of these poisonous humours, bleeding thoughts onto a virtual page. Ah, I feel better already. Biz Stone says that bloggers are smart, that the longer we blog, the smarter we become due to the writing process itself. My ego likes that idea. I can go from smart-ass to smart just by typing? Cool!
As with any practice, mistakes will be made: my writing voice must be polished over time, and the blog itself will settle down eventually. I thank you in advance for your patience, as I encourage you to leave your comments. Writing in a vacuum will not improve this experience for anyone. So c’mon, people, let’s blog!
* Thank you, Neil Stephenson, wherever you are.