Let me tell you something: I fucking hate writing. It takes forever, it demands 100 percent of my focus to do properly, and at least 90 percent of the time, I hate the final product anyway. This post I wrote yesterday? What the fucking fuck. Who cares? What I want to do, every time I start writing something, is produce text that makes you go, Huh, wow, I had never considered that, or imagined it that way. Obviously, this is unrealistic. BUT STILL. Anyway, I feel like a schmuck poseur with just about every post I blog. I realize part of this is the all-pervasive impostor syndrome. But some of it genuinely comes from this nagging desire to be viewed as a startlingly intellectual person. How typical. How sad.
The main reason I started this blog is that I would like to become more disciplined about writing. I’ve been coasting for a long-ass time. I always envision this better life where I sit down at the computer (or sometimes I’m using a pencil and legal pad) at around the same time every morning and churn out one or two thousand words, and then I lean back as I peruse the day’s output and smile to myself — not proudly, because I’m way too restrained and humble for that, but with satisfaction. This has never happened, and I don’t know how often it happens to any writer. I need to let go of the fantasy.
But I also need to do the work, regardless. I am so…rootless. I started doing vipassana meditation a few weeks ago, and it’s remarkable how much stability just maintaining one daily habit has brought me. Based on EVERYTHING I’VE EVER FUCKING READ ABOUT SELF-IMPROVEMENT, I strongly suspect adding another will be still more helpful. And it ought to be writing, because pretty much every dream vocation of mine involves writing in some form.
The great advantage of this dumb new blog, known only to a few dozen of you and uncoupled (I think) from my full true identity,* is that I can theoretically write without fear about all the crazy bullshit that actually matters to me: how much pot I smoke, and how anxious it makes me (the THC itself makes me anxious, chemically speaking, as it builds up in my system; and I’m always naggingly anxious about whether the drug use is mostly harmless or gradually causing my life to deteriorate). My idiosyncratic beliefs about the nature of reality (I’m increasingly certain I have lived this exact life, more or less, more than once before). Weird sex stuff. Dumb theories about U2.
Let me tell you something: Coming out as bisexual in 2015 was super fucking easy. I know my friend groups on social media, and I knew I would get overwhelming support and even be lauded. There are far, far scarier and more intimate things I could be writing about, and it seems self-evident that I should be.
At a certain point, to achieve anything meaningful, you have to pick a direction and an intention and some kind of objective and work toward it. For now, maybe my objective is just to be here every day, or almost. And to try to open some more veins, talk about stuff that really matters, the stuff soaked into the fibers of my soul. If it’s boring and if you hate it, I wish it were otherwise, but I cannot apologize. I know it needs work. I don’t know where else to do it.
*Please let me know if you see anywhere where people can easily trace this place back to my real name. I don’t care that much, but I would like to be aware.
No comments here, but email me anytime about this dumb blog or anything else. If you send nudes, be aware that I will share them with my wife. (Not that that should stop you.)