It’s hard to write when there’s nothing one wants to say, at least, nothing one knows others care to hear. It becomes easy to indulge in silence, to make neglect an act.
I could write on gripes, explain in a way that I find logical, friends find comical, and strangers find off-putting, the myriad little pricks of daily life. Some writers make it work. Louis Black has made a whole career of it. My notes come out flat.
If I were to explain the recent number of ninja followers on Agricultural Alchemy’s instagram, those that follow huge swathes in the hope that some will follow back, those same that then unfollow said swathe so as to artificially enlarge their own numbers through a debasement of common courtesy, it might seem funny. It might seem instead petty. My frustration would remain the same.
The most common advice I get on blogging boils down to an admonishment to cheer up. But I don’t want to cheer up, I want to have things about which to be cheery. I want to address problems in the hopes that my doing so will spread understanding, and that that understanding will resolve the problems. I want to be read as if I were Howard Beale in Network, a modern day profit denouncing the hypocrisy of our times, but even within the film the character was as much a figure of mockery as he was anything else. And anyway, mine is a voice for writing as much as it is a face for radio. Television wouldn’t suit.
I can feel the cold medicine seeping into my skull and rendering my brain inert. Normally I abhor the walking mindlessness of stupefying drugs, but this evening I welcome it.
Perhaps tomorrow will be a a cheerier day about which to write.
I don’t see why it wouldn’t be, I’ll be spending several hours hitting people with and being hit in return by staves and fists. What more pleasant way could one spend a saturday?