If I'm writing about 40,000 words of this blog a month. And I am. And if a novel is about 120,000 words. And it is. Then you don't have to be Albert Enstein, Albert Tatlock, or even Prince Albert and his amazing penis ring to work out that I could just as easily be writing 4 novels a year in my spare time, rather than this crap.
Well, "just as easily" is probably a bit of an exaggeration.
"Not as easily" would be more accurate. I write this shit and then forget about it. I don't try to make it hold together or form a single coherent pattern. I just blether.
Blether blether blether. That's what I do.
I open my mind, give my fingers the chance to do what they're now doing almost automatically, and form sounds into words into sentences on the screen. I almost always have a blank Windows Notepad (for that is my editor of choice) sitting on my desktop, like a blank sheet of diary, waiting to be scrawled on by my over-fertile allotment of word-soil.
Word-soil?
Ridiculous.
I was trying to explain the merits of blogging to a girl on a train as I went to London last night. I came across as a bit of a geeky zealot. So I did myself justice, then. I think the point is that the process of writing is simultaneously unreal (it's only words after all... and in some cases not even words - suyzygakdiyf - it's not even a sound!) and also a way of revealing the truth. Sure, I hold stuff back when I'm writing. I'm not going to divulge everything I think, because I have to have some private head-space. However, I'm also revealing more about my inner state with the way that I write than I'm necessarily aware of at the time.
So, you might read a particular post and think - "mmm, he's not got a healthy distance about that", or "mmm, he looks on the brink of total mental collapse" and you might be right. I'd probably be unaware of it at the time of writing, though I do often read back and see how nutso I sounded in the past.
The process of accounting for myself in words gives me a constant rationale of what I'm doing and why. So, though this may be the world's longest and most unpublishable novel, it's doing me some good to write it.
Well, "just as easily" is probably a bit of an exaggeration.
"Not as easily" would be more accurate. I write this shit and then forget about it. I don't try to make it hold together or form a single coherent pattern. I just blether.
Blether blether blether. That's what I do.
I open my mind, give my fingers the chance to do what they're now doing almost automatically, and form sounds into words into sentences on the screen. I almost always have a blank Windows Notepad (for that is my editor of choice) sitting on my desktop, like a blank sheet of diary, waiting to be scrawled on by my over-fertile allotment of word-soil.
Word-soil?
Ridiculous.
I was trying to explain the merits of blogging to a girl on a train as I went to London last night. I came across as a bit of a geeky zealot. So I did myself justice, then. I think the point is that the process of writing is simultaneously unreal (it's only words after all... and in some cases not even words - suyzygakdiyf - it's not even a sound!) and also a way of revealing the truth. Sure, I hold stuff back when I'm writing. I'm not going to divulge everything I think, because I have to have some private head-space. However, I'm also revealing more about my inner state with the way that I write than I'm necessarily aware of at the time.
So, you might read a particular post and think - "mmm, he's not got a healthy distance about that", or "mmm, he looks on the brink of total mental collapse" and you might be right. I'd probably be unaware of it at the time of writing, though I do often read back and see how nutso I sounded in the past.
The process of accounting for myself in words gives me a constant rationale of what I'm doing and why. So, though this may be the world's longest and most unpublishable novel, it's doing me some good to write it.
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