Letter of Intent
This blog has become a blemish on my conscience. I suffer from the common affliction of not being able to finish what I start. Up to now, the list of unfinished business includes hooked rugs, novels, short stories, manifestos, relationships (the neverending "break"), and college. I don't plan on finishing those rugs until maybe I'm pregnant and too bloated to do anything else, and then only after I've played every Solitaire game possible. College I hope to finish up in the next few days, because it seems a little silly to not get my degree because of a take-home exam I'm pretty sure my professor will accept up to a month after the incomplete deadline. But isn't life a little silly? Unfortunately, the Uncertainty Principle is as close as physicists get to embracing absurdism, so I'm left with two choices (now, just one): turn in incomplete and incorrect coursework on the due date (too late for that) or turn in mostly completed and mostly correct coursework sometime before or after the exact due date. I suppose I could strive for complete, entirely correct coursework, but then I'd never turn it in. Such is life.
I digress. My habit of digression is why I never finish my blogs. I can't remember what my point was, but I can't bring myself to delete everything I've written from the point of digression, so I save the post as a draft and never look back.
Also, no one reads this blog. Except Mike, who loves me. I don't blame people for not reading it, because I hardly ever update, and the quality of my writing varies wildly, from soporific drivel to extreme cleverness (rare, but it can be found here and there--really!). I want to be a real writer, one who gets paid, so I know that this is a part of becoming a good writer--subjecting everything you do to public scrutiny, whether it sucks or not, and continue writing. Write the shit, write the diamonds, write write write. Eventually I'll figure out where I went wrong, where I was right, and come up with a reasonable algorithm for producing good literature (or propaganda, depending on how much I decide to satisfy my lust for power).
I thought about giving up on the blog. It's a hassle, I thought. It takes me away from my real writing time. But, really, how often do I have an idea for a story? If I only wrote when I could produce a complete work, I'd never really improve. Before genius, there's hard work, tedium, and disappointment. If I can't commit myself to updating a blog more than once a week, how can I expect to commit to a career in writing?
So this is the last statement of purpose you'll find here. Now, to fulfill my purpose. Someday I hope that I can address a plural "you", as opposed to just Mike, the singular "you" that is currently my entire audience.
Because I wanna look smart too...
The Book: Barnaby Rudge
, by the endlessly delightful and insightful Charles Dickens
Mike's playlist, which reflects his earnest desire to broaden his musical horizons; his heretofore unadmitted tendency towards snobbishness; and his sanguinal support of mediocrity. Do I approve? Yes.