You're Invited to a Pity Party

This blog thing is harder than it looks. 

As you’re reading this statement, I assume that you’re picturing me as a whiny and pretentious 4-year old with pigtails and an astonishingly upturned nose, shoving expensive chocolates and Petrossian special-reserve caviar down her pie-hole, a la Augustus Gloop.  That’s what I’m imagining, anyway.

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Really, M, grow a set.  It can’t be that bad.  It was your idea, after all.  

But seriously, for someone like me who is perilously underequipped in all things will-related, committing to a rigid (or not-so-rigid if you consider my track record) schedule of intelligent and thought-provoking scrawlings is a heavy burden to carry.  I understand now why authors tend to rent out wooded cabins and spend months alone with their typewriter or laptop after running their smart phone over with a riding lawnmower.  Life gets in the way.

On the other hand though, the flavor of life is what really makes the cake worth eating, now isn’t it?  Though I would venture to guess that such deliberate isolation must breed tremendous creativity [and serial killers], I don’t think that I could ever fully commit to a life entirely powered by my mind and an electric typewriter.  

I know I wasn’t born with an imagination like Lewis Carroll, which I do think is really too bad, but my disappointment is tempered by the threat of what would possibly happen if my dreams became scripted reality.  A chiropractor that uses a power drill to correct your T4/T5 spinal misalignment is still pretty scary, even on paper (especially at age 11, which was when this sickening brainchild came to me in the night – my sister can confirm that the next 3 years were full of dreams and mental snapshots that were quite alarming but simultaneously had the potential to make me a cool million in slasher film royalties).  It's a good thing I haven't written all of them down.  That is, unless you consider that as a result, I didn't make a cool million in slasher film royalties.  Then it seems less good.

And all of this creativity happened without the massive opiate supply that Lewis Carroll must have been employing – we are agreed on that fact, right?

I guess what I’m saying is that finishing each of these little posts is like taking a good nap.  For the experience to be sufficiently gratifying, I need to expend a fair amount of energy in preparation and do some rigorous carbo-loading in advance.   It’s not as easy as it seems.  Please, feel for me.

And can you hand me a napkin?  I've dribbled a little caviar down my front.