I hate that to be a writer you have to write. I have decided to try to deal with this cruel fact head on by blogging because writing just isn’t working. I’ve been trying to write for about 20 years now. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve written a bit here and there. A few short stories, a novel boasting two and a half chapters, scraps of writing exercises, endless journals filled with pathetic and repetitive dribblings. I even wrote a poem once. But despite the fits and starts, despite joining Writers Groups and buying cool pens and going to readings to get autographed first additions and subscribing to Poets & Writers and attending workshops at Sarah Lawrence and P-town and now and then even calling myself a writer, I don’t write. Not really. So I’m blogging, and God help the poor writer or nonwriter who wants to be a writer who might actually wind up reading this because it is going to be painful. I am plugged up and frustrated and full of self-loathing and half-stories and characters scratching from behind my eyeballs. I am sick of myself and my so-called muse and my sagging shelf of writing books–yes, they are all there–The Art of Fiction, Bird by Bird, Story, Forest Through the Trees, even Stephen King and Rita Mae Brown sit there smirking at me. I used to relish trips to bookstores but I’m starting to feel like a sex offender lingering near the playground. So it’s time. Time to use this blogging thing like a plunger. (I will spare you and myself further simile or metaphor of bodily functions.)
I am going to assume, unlike most bloggers, that no one will read this. And I am going to blog every day if I can, until I can write.