When I started blogging again, I thought the words would come easily. Well, perhaps “easily” is an overstatement. I’ve always agonized over what I’m writing, or to be more precise, what I’m going to write.
I put a lot of time and effort into mentally preparing myself for the task of putting words on paper (or into keyboard if the longhand imagery isn’t working for you). When I finally feel I’m ready, I’m usually so frustrated by the whole process I just want to get it over with. What ends up on my blog is either a worthwhile read or it isn’t.
I convince myself that the work can stand on its own merits. It doesn’t need any of that window that editing and proofreading provide.
In short, the road to mediocrity is full of potholes. That doesn’t have to matter though. When I hit my stride, I’m able to make it down that bumpy road in a matter of hours or days rather than weeks or months. It doesn’t matter that I’m seemingly incapable of writing about anything except drinking binges, homicide, or poop, at least not to me.
I think what I need to do is get over myself. Those who write amusing gibberish aren’t allowed to behave like they’re tortured artists. Besides, it’s not like anybody reads my stuff anyway.