You wish you could write, sometimes.
Wish you could communicate what’s happening with you, how it’s happening, what it feels like while it’s happening.
But you’re kind of always doing something other than stopping to think about what is happening, how it’s happening, or what it feels like.
Working online steals you away from the greatest kinds of writing. You’re plopped into a rush of ideas and innovations that both distract and delight.
Oh, and by the way, the fact that your lofty view of Vancouver’s West End at the privilege of a ninth floor perch is evidence that a lot of people have their lights and tvs on at 1am every night doesn’t fully justify a 20 hour workday, again. Sometimes you have a to shut down the laptop and pick up a book and read something that someone wrote the old way.
Something deliberate…something that created a movement or an idea or a contribution to the world that meant something.
Because that’s all your work is.
It’s a piece of work to offer the world that you think might make a ripple on the sea of wonderful contributions to the betterments of the human experience that have happened in recent history.
Our best writers, ever, by the way, have painted us a picture of that human experience, and that…that is as righteous and innovative and meaningful (and in not enough cases financially rewarding) as the technologies you see such beauty in.
Shut down the laptop. Pick up a book.
And then read something that Hunter S. Thompson wrote, or Dave Eggers wrote, or fuck…blow your mind…pick up Harlan Ellison. Chew on that for a while.
Realize your vocabulary is like a runway model: starved and deceptively shiny.
Read their stuff, and then remember why you love the online writers you love, why you admire them so much. Why you almost can’t blog half the time because you keep reading their shit.
Then put those next thoughts out of your head.
that paralyzes you with the realization that Harlan’s Shatterday pierced the air you were breathing and country line-danced around the mindset you thought you were in. Turn off the nightlamp and ignore that thought.
that the bloggers you read for inspiration, the handful of them, just published such…such…such gorgeous red roses that the bouquet is full and you’re toting around daisies. And the daisies you’re carrying are the beat up daisies that 6 year old girls rip up from the muni soccer pitch during a game. The kind of daisies that distraught, overly competitive fathers watch occupy the attention of their daughters as she sits down while the ball rolls by because ballet is way more fun.
Put those thoughts out of your head.
Because if you don’t…if you can’t push those thoughts off the edge of a skyscraper while they tell you about their kids…
…you’ll end up just wishing you could write.
And wishing you could write is a really tough place to write from…