Stranger than truth.

As I imagine is the case for many blogwrights, for a long time there as been a part of me that wants to be a writer. Of the various genres I’ve tried over the years, the essay is my strongest, but there really isn’t much call for essays written by people what don’t do anything or know anything. I mean, if I wrote magazine articles on my travels in the Yucatan, people might be interested, but I’ve never been to the Yucatan.

This brings me to reflection on the purpose of published writing. We write to communicate information, to make points, and to entertain. I have no information to impart, few well-backed opinions, and my fiction has consistently been terrible. Thus, I have no right to write. Thus, also, this blog. I enjoy writing, but can’t keep up with all the work involved in doing it in a meaningful fashion, so I spill my thoughts here for you all.

Writing is about the only productive thing I have consistently enjoyed or taken any pride in. That means I’m supposed to go for it, right? Aren’t I somehow less of a person if I don’t follow whatever foolhardy dreams I may come up with? Problem is, aside from the dreams of sitting quietly at a desk and finding the notes that resonate, I also have dreams of being able to consistently pay my rent. So, I guess I should pursue it as a hobby and plug away at ye olde grind.

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