In lieu, again, of something more significant, and perhaps in the tradition of bloggy blog, I’m just going to write again today.  And, yeah, I don’t know why that’s such a big deal. I think the just writing is what this is supposed to be, but there’s something evil in the back of my mind (it has a name, and I’ll be writing about it eventually) that makes me think just writing isn’t good enough.  Screw you, thing in the back of my mind.  Indeed, screw you.

I’ve talked to folks lately about learning to be a bad writer–or, rather, learning to let myself be a bad writer.  Which is not to say that I’ve been a good writer up to now.  That’s the point.  I just haven’t been a writer.  Which maybe isn’t exactly true.  I haven’t been much of a writer.

What I’ve decided (I’ve been becoming a decider, lately–slowly perhaps, but still; thanks, Dubya; you the man) is that to get where I want to go, I need to let myself be a bad writer: lacking profundity, grammatically incorrect, stylistically lame, obtuse, convoluted, lacking readers, etc.–yaknow, all the stuff that comes naturally.

All of you fine people who aren’t reading–or, reading, aren’t responding to–my blog are actually helping.  So there.  Er, I mean, thank you.  Really.  It’s sad how dependent I am on people’s responses, or lack thereof.  It’s sad how sensitive I am to being unread or unreadable or so easily misunderstood.  It’s sad that at this stage in my life I am still so fundamentally insecure and hopelessly hanging on the approval and acceptance of others.  But I am, and, there, I confessed it.

There are other sad things, but that’s a whole other post.  What’s funny (I don’t know about you, but I’m coming to the conclusion that if it’s funny one way, it’s probably funny several others and the whole bit about “ha ha” and “strange” is just another intravenous line of bullsh** we all accept to our great detriment) is that the acceptance-hungry voice in my head says “don’t promise more sadness; people hate sadness.”  Screw you, acceptance-hungry voice.  Though (and this is not a concession to AHV, that dirty bastard–he is, in fact, a bastard, btw, but that too is a whole other post) I will add that much of what I mean to write about the sadness is that it’s also a place of laughter, curiosity and enlightenment–maybe mostly laughter, as far as I can tell.  That doesn’t make any sense, you might say, if you were reading this and responding to it.  Ah, but it does, I might respond, were we interacting.  Stay tuned.  Which obviously makes no sense if you’re not already tuned.  But there, again, I said it anyway.

I have a point.  What’s funny is that I keep having it.  This then may become a blog largely about blogging–or about not blogging or about the incipient potential of the blog.  Probably not.  Probably I say that because I’m self-conscious about a dozen different aspects of my and my blog’s inadequacy.  But I notice that others blog about the blogging and the not blogging.  Again, why this should matter to me, an adult–at least I have the chronological accumulation to suggest I might be an adult–I’m embarrassed to ask (I do ask–in case you’re curious–in my head, and fire back the answers I don’t want to hear).

So, yes, the point (implied but not quite yet spoken in the preceding paragraph): I will write and keep writing.  I will be bad.  I will be unread.  Oh what a glorious thing it is.