I suppose I should write a thing, right? Bloggers are supposed to do that I think. They feed sentences into gears, and crank ’em through until posts are produced. Well, uh, I must have a jam up in my machinery, because I got some malfunctioning goin’ on up in herrrre.
It’d be nice to crank ’em out, to write more often–more casually. I suppose that feels fairly futile to me. I mean, is another unorganized rant what the world really needs? I want to produce something worth someone’s time. And your time is worth buckets of gold-plated rainbows. And maybe I’m wrong about this (it’d be a relief), but pieces of that caliber require loads of contemplation, organizing, drafting, blah blah blah. Will I ever produce a gold-plated rainbow, let alone a collection of ’em?
I still need to know if people really read each other’s rants.
Here’s my conundrum: I want to write, but I’m daunted by something like a handball-wall on roids. Like, to feel good about a piece I publish, every hulking grey brick needs to be painstakingly placed to perfection. It’s not that I can’t put in the time and muscle. I can learn to sandwich cement-goop between layers of leveled brick with whatever it is masons use. But then I’d step back and hone in on the imperfections. I return to it… and I can’t keep my hands from fine-tuning my prose. It’s daunting. You know, like building handball walls and things and stuff.
There’s so many scattered ideas I’d like to explore here, and there’s literally 20 posts in “drafts,” and this makes five in “published.” Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Anyone out there feel me?!
Peace and love and words and things and stuff to you! <33