I owe all of you an apology. Last night’s post was like, the Seinfeld of blogging – it was a post about nothing. (If you don’t get that, no soup for you.)
I started off with a point, maybe. I guess I was trying to say that I didn’t understand why some structure was so rigid, whilst other stuff, I’m all whatever about. The moral to this story is that I apologize for 714 words about nothing, that you may have spent actual time reading when you could have done something more interesting, such as picking sock lint out of the corners of your big toes.
Here’s the deal.
I sit down to write with a cup of tea, laptop perched upon Isobel’s ginormous copy of What do people do all day? and I think of like, a sentence. And the posts just usually write themselves, because if nothing else, I’m wordy. I don’t, like some people, start with an end in mind – which is probably why endings often come suddenly, about 15 paragraphs after where you’d really like them to come. I don’t come up with concepts for posts – at least I rarely have in almost five years of blogging – because that one idea or picture or sentence is what gets me started.
This means that the posts you thought were good were a C-student effort. This means that the posts you think are bad, are still a C-student effort.
If I wanted to be funny, I wouldn’t even try because I’d fail and reading a post back to myself, cringe more times than there’s anti-wrinkle cream to combat. (Keep in mind: I smoke and I don’t wear sunglasses or sunblock, and I’m a natural redhead. Anti-wrinkle cream is about as necessary as air, at this point in time.)
If I wanted to be more upbeat, intentionally? I’d probably end up gagging on my over-use of the words awesome and fabulous. Those are my happy place words, in case you didn’t know. Along with money and righteous.
Sometimes, I drop down a groovy or gravy, too. Because I like to kick it old school.
If I wanted to make you cry? I’d be a heinous bitch.
Moving on.
I’m not trying to be any one, or any type of writer, really. I’m just some chick, sitting down during the quiet moments and spewing forth words that often have little to offer but over-analysis of the self and under-appreciation for the environment that allows them to be said.
Thing is. I rarely have ever deleted posts. Thing is. I have plans to go back to my old ancient before-mommy-blogging-came-into-my-life blog and clean it up and then link it here.
Then. I look back on posts like last night’s and realize how much better that piece of nondirectional time suck was than the way-back stuff. And I’m embarrassed. Here I am, occasionally calling myself a writer and I have historical proof of a complete lack of congruent thought, inability to cull a post in the usual creative format and also, the all important: a lack of effort to just post a picture or two of the kid.
Or not post at all.
So, the long and short of it is: I’m sorry you had to read that post last night, in all of it’s glorious suckitude.
(and this one, too.)
