Day Eighty-Two
Yeah, I’m just not feeling this thing anymore.
The blog thing? It isn’t helping my writing. It isn’t helping me. It isn’t helping anything, so I don’t know if I’m going to bother with this anymore. I’m going to try to hit my count for the night and then sleep on it. If there’s not a blog here in the morning, then…I don’t know, there’s not a blog here? I guess this is kind of a weird paragraph, because I’m just talking to myself. If I delete this whole thing and get rid of it, it’s not like I’m going to read it in the future. So this is just a bunch of fluff, helping me to reach an arbitrary number. Sounds a lot like work, really.
I bitch a fair bit on this thing, but that’s kind of my prerogative. I don’t have a whole lot of other outlets, so I’m just kind of…I don’t know, using this one. At one point, I figured that people might actually be reading this thing. If they do, I guess I’m embarrassed. There hasn’t been anything of any quality on here. I thought about adding “in a while”, but let’s be honest- there just hasn’t.
At some point, you have to realize that throwing in the towel’s probably the best thing that you can do. I’m a shitty writer. I’m aware of that. I’m technically proficient enough to write things that go on websites, but anything else? I’m pretty bad at it. I used to think that if I put in the effort, I’d get better. I’m not going to, because let’s face it – there comes a point where you have it or you don’t. I just don’t. There’s not a great novel waiting inside me. There’s not a mediocre short story, either. The best I can hope for is a tweet that doesn’t make other people want to punch me.
I think I wanted to be a writer because it sounded romantic. Like I’d spend my days pouring out my soul, crafting something that would touch others. The thing is, I don’t think I really have anything to pour out. I’ve got a strong desire to not really do anything that involves real labor, I guess, but that’s pretty much all I’ve got on the writing side. I can put together hackneyed concepts and clichéd characters, and at best I can mix that with a mediocre plot that brings absolutely nothing to the table. When it comes to writing, I’ve got exactly as much ability as the average person.
That sucks, because it means that a dream’s kind of over. But on the other hand, I’m being a little more realistic about my life. Nobody’s going to give a damn about the things I write, beyond maybe a passing nod to heal my ego. The only people who have ever cared to read the things I’ve written are my friends, and let’s face it – they did that not because the work was good, but because they were my friends. And by this point, they really can’t put up with any more of the crap I shovel out. So that’s me calling it a day.
I wanted to shoot for my thousand here, but I’m just going to stop. I’ll write something tomorrow or I won’t.














