Time Wounds All Heels
I used to write online quite a lot. Certainly weekly, and often several times a week. I would write about anything and everything, really. Whatever was annoying me. Whatever was interesting me.
Then things slowed down. Then things stopped dead. I could probably enumerate the causes if I chose to dwell on them. I could look backwards, which is what we all do for the most part, look backwards, because it’s easier and obvious. But I want to start looking forward, again. Looking forward to something. Looking forward towards something. And to start writing again.
Certainly, I’ll make no promises. Why would I? You don’t care about them, and neither do I. Promises made online aren’t real, and they’re made to be broken. Nothing online is very important. It’s all so disposable and most of it is horrible. And I mean that in the original sense. Not the more modern one that waters down its meaning, but the one going back centuries.
“Marked by or arousing horror.”
It’s awful out there, or haven’t you noticed? I suppose it was inevitable, the dumbing down of everything. The trivialization and ignorance posing as opinion. The snippets of nothing shot out at lightspeed as if everything, everything, everything has importance, when all that does is illustrate the opposite.
But back to me. And to you. You who found this, however you did. And who knows what you want? Hard to tell when one looks at what’s popular. Not that I should use that as a yardstick, of course. And not that I will. No, if I’m going to have any measure of success — and buy ‘success’ I simply mean a continued drive to write, rather than the drive to write well — I must just keep at it. Often, though not necessarily at length.
So here I go again. And to hell with expectation and promises.
June 30, 2008