Being a writer is both rewarding and frustrating. Most days I don’t even know if I could call myself a writer. Writers need to well, write, in order to be defined. It’s a label that slips into a manhole every time you change your clothes. Unlike being a scientist, which is defined by the education you’ve attained and the thought processes you employ to the world’s problems, writers must write and publish to deserve the label.
Hence my saga of failed attempts to write every day, then to edit what I’ve written. And ultimately to publish the best pieces for others to read. I doubt this is the best place to publish that stuff. I harbor no illusions that people randomly find you on the Internet. If writing is anything like the work I do, web traffic results from someone’s effort. The cream doesn’t rise to the top. The cup is always being stirred by self-promoters who don’t want to drown in the talent pool. Not that I think I’m especially talented, just hard working. And if hard work is all that separates me from the naturally gifted writers out there, than I damn well better start writing every day.
So here comes the blog. The meta blog, really. This is the blog about the writing I ought to be doing. I figure if I talk about what I want to do, seeing my intentions in print, reflected back into my eyes, ought to increase my tendency to follow through. It helps buttress my deeper desires against the onslaught of actions that rail against me, fed to me by the ‘cycle of distractions.’ I want to go on a writing rampage! Only I get sleepy first.