I have been having a hard time keeping up with this blog for many reasons, most of which I blame conveniently on “transition.” There have been a few, but honestly, there will be more, and then others, all of which, if used as a convenient scapegoat, will derail my writing permanently.
The real culprit is my old nemesis perfectionism, and the narrow-minded inner critic that decided, for no particularly good reason, that since I am a writer, who wants to work as a writer, this blog needs to be about writing. Now, what the hell does that mean? I have a few as of yet unpublished posts who are just sitting in the queue right now because they need to be plumped up and polished like apples on display: they are essays on the art of writing. In the meantime, actual bloggers are getting off their asses and blogging daily. Now, who is the writer?
I have come to the conclusion that any art there is to writing in a blog lies in the writing of it, and that blog should consist of writing, pure and simple. Here goes everything.