On Life as a Sarcastic Fringehead

Writing everyday is a difficult process especially when I have nothing to say or I can't pull away in my own story. I have great quotes floating in my head about the compulsion of writers and how insane we are if we're not writing and how unstable we show ourselves to be when we are. Yes, we live in our heads most of the time and, ironically, we are not the best communicators. It's confusing. We can argue for days online about root words and other etymologies while flying into fits of self-righteous rage, but we cannot say, in person, "Dude, you hurt my feelings" or "I think you overcharged me for this item, sir."

Perhaps I should not try to speak for all writers. Let me speak for this one. Being a part of any community is hard for me. Work, school, social organizations (forget that one altogether). If I'm new to the scene, as I am to this blogging community, I am silent except in my own space until I read something that touches a nerve, making me want to help or spend my two cents. I contribute to the discussion and, every time, immediately regret the decision. Always thinking that someone will find me dismissive or rude or insincere. Or that someone will be dismissive, rude or insincere toward me. (I also proofread the hell out of each and every comment and entry. So I'm regretting and I'm wondering about comma placement all at once)

Blogging every day makes me write every day, and that was the original goal when I started this thing (thanks to I-know-who). Whether I finish my story or not, I've learned to write for an audience (yes, an audience of three, but that's more community than I ever received in my sketchbook journal). I've learned to swallow praise and criticism as the same little coated caplet. I've always been an information nerd, so having the Internet at my fingertips while I write is amazing.

When I was younger, I used to give soliliquies similar to this one over how my mother was persecuting the genius in me by making me clean my room or clean the kitchen. My brother, paraphrasing me in his hilarious falsetto, would stand to the side of my dramatics with a hand to his forehead and cry: "Goodbye, cruel world" or something to that effect. He always made me laugh and, to this day, can still call me on my bullshit. I was thinking just now that I may not continue this blog for much longer, and those scenes with my brother popped into my head.

Writing is hard work. Writing well is harder. Any philosophers out there? Did I get that right? I'd hate to make illogical leaps of thought here on the 'net. That never happens.

More later, after I feel I have my shit together. Or maybe before I get my shit together. That choice might make things a little more interesting.