I feel very ashamed for not having written in awhile. (There it is! I’ve said the thing that I pledged never to say. Farewell to whatever small fragmented amount of self respect remains to a person after they forfeit the larger portion to become a blog-person).
Awhile ago I commented that I was striving for consistency in writing, so that I might never have to make that awkward apology (blogology?) for not writing. My first motivation for this is so that I might separate myself from the throng of other internet-creepers who are making vague excuses into the abyss about finals, patchy internet or losing their space-bar finger to cheese-graters, followed by feverish promises to do better next time.
My other motivation was a wholly less offensive one. I had been hoping that I would be so inflamed with the joy of blogging that I would not lapse into breaks and that the very act of blog-having would transform me from my previous lazy identity into a more motivated person.
Quite apparently, that was not the case.
A more secret motivation was that I was hoping that writing more regularly here would motivate me to do other forms of writing more enthusiastically, or rather, with a more clinical regularity. To this end I am an absolute failure at prioritizing. If you’ll allow me to wax a bit melodramatic (the beauty is that you can’t stop me, I’m going to wax that shit on and off like the Karate Kid on crack), I’ll amble on a bit about my largely imagined problems.
As it stands now, my waking life is divided into five main segments of activity: A) working B) various social ventures C) reading D) eating and E) writing. [To say nothing of looking for a job, one that will enable me to afford the means of B through E in a more permanent fashion, as that is much too dreary an issue].
Two of these things (eating and working) are inescapable to some degree and therefore might be regarded as hostile, but both are mitigated by an ability to combine with other more pleasant factors. Para example, at work I sometimes socialize or read and I daily consume food between the hours of 11 30 and noon in the break room. Similarly, eating is very often combined with socializing and when it is not, I elect to read while eating. (I have perfected a great strategy for not getting Cheetos dust on the pages of a borrowed book. It involves agility and an affinity for white socks. Trade secret).
Because of its inherent solidarity as an activity, writing comes in at the bottom of the pile. And it’s not that I don’t enjoy writing, it’s that I have an amazing ability to make excuses against doing it. I’m doing it right now.
But on the upside, I can post this blog and pretend like I was productive today.
Awhile ago I commented that I was striving for consistency in writing, so that I might never have to make that awkward apology (blogology?) for not writing. My first motivation for this is so that I might separate myself from the throng of other internet-creepers who are making vague excuses into the abyss about finals, patchy internet or losing their space-bar finger to cheese-graters, followed by feverish promises to do better next time.
My other motivation was a wholly less offensive one. I had been hoping that I would be so inflamed with the joy of blogging that I would not lapse into breaks and that the very act of blog-having would transform me from my previous lazy identity into a more motivated person.
Quite apparently, that was not the case.
A more secret motivation was that I was hoping that writing more regularly here would motivate me to do other forms of writing more enthusiastically, or rather, with a more clinical regularity. To this end I am an absolute failure at prioritizing. If you’ll allow me to wax a bit melodramatic (the beauty is that you can’t stop me, I’m going to wax that shit on and off like the Karate Kid on crack), I’ll amble on a bit about my largely imagined problems.
As it stands now, my waking life is divided into five main segments of activity: A) working B) various social ventures C) reading D) eating and E) writing. [To say nothing of looking for a job, one that will enable me to afford the means of B through E in a more permanent fashion, as that is much too dreary an issue].
Two of these things (eating and working) are inescapable to some degree and therefore might be regarded as hostile, but both are mitigated by an ability to combine with other more pleasant factors. Para example, at work I sometimes socialize or read and I daily consume food between the hours of 11 30 and noon in the break room. Similarly, eating is very often combined with socializing and when it is not, I elect to read while eating. (I have perfected a great strategy for not getting Cheetos dust on the pages of a borrowed book. It involves agility and an affinity for white socks. Trade secret).
Because of its inherent solidarity as an activity, writing comes in at the bottom of the pile. And it’s not that I don’t enjoy writing, it’s that I have an amazing ability to make excuses against doing it. I’m doing it right now.
But on the upside, I can post this blog and pretend like I was productive today.
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