I’m sitting here, knowing that I should write something, anything. It’s not as if these blog / journal posts are in high demand or anything. I just feel like I should. I haven’t written one since last week, and the need to do it is outweighing the necessity of it.
I can offer more writing advice, but do you really need it? I posted some last week that got a decent amount of hits and comments, but I feel it deserves to fall on deaf ears if forced. Besides, I also said in one of those posts that WordPress is full of writing advice, a lot of it repetitive. Today, I have no advice to offer.
I could rant, but what’s the point of that? Anything I can rant about has been done by people more educated than me. This is why I like fiction. I can just make shit up to rant about, leaving the state of the world to the eggheads who can articulate their anger better.
At this point I feel as if I need to admit to doing my readers and followers a disservice by not talking about my personal life. I also feel slightly shitty assuming anyone would care, conceit being a personal pet peeve of mine I don’t always keep in check. I like to think of myself as an open book when it comes to who and what I am, but I’ve never brought myself to the point of blogging or writing about certain aspects of my life. Even now I can tell I’ll pull back before it goes “too far”.
And there I go again.
So what else is there to say, really? I write because I have stories I want to tell. I blog because I have something I want to say. In both cases I want someone to read, listen, and respond. It’s this nagging little urge that keeps my fingers buzzing on the keyboard, this need to be in a constant state of communication. I feel as if the world could cave in around me if there’s no talk, discussion, or social intercourse of any kind.
And that’s why I felt the need to write this.