Since all three of my readers have officially made me feel guilty about not writing anything for so long, I suppose I can make myself write a post or two.
But I have (or, as it were, had) so many good excuses for utterly forsaking this little patch of cyberspace. My computer's long-lobbied mutiny against me (I ask you, little iMac, was it all the cephalopod porn? Was it the blogging? The presence of Windows Office? Was I jamming your keyboard too hard? WHY OH WHY??!) was rather crippling. And I've been busy, I guess, though I'll often find myself alone in my room doing nothing in the middle of the day, which, as you know, is the perfect environment for hatching a blog post (note post time).
One factor is that I haven't had any homework from which to procrastinate. Believe you me, homework spurs a great many blog posts in this world. If I had to guess, I'd say that the imminent threat of actual work prompts about, oh, 98% of all clutter in the blagosphere. Livejournal, Blogger, Wordpress... all of these have been found under microscopic examination to be comprised almost entirely of a digitalized compound of laziness and fear of doing real things. Just look at the pixels on the page of any blog. You can see that they ooze with loathing for actual work. However, since I have had very little actual work that involved me sitting at a computer this summer, I have not been able to generate enough laziness and fear to excrete a blog.
See? Completely not my fault, and in a simple, explainable, concise form.
Frankly, I can't believe that, either. Really I've spent most of this summer, and really probably most of this year, being utterly terrified. It hasn't kept me up at night or anything, but I can't help but feel overwhelmed with my choice of college major. I love reading; literature gives me a jolt like few things can. I love writing; there is no joy quite like creating something that you know is good. The problem is where these two joys and my perfectionism intersect. I read great fiction by people such as Joey Comeau and Megan McCarron and wonder to myself how the hell I would EVER be able to come up with something witty, creative, and moving enough to even lick the shoes of a story like "Where Are You Off To Now?" or "The Flying Woman" or even projects such as 55 Words. My creative writing class ended with my miserable failure at creating a cohesive short story (for me, a favorite medium), and I find myself afraid now to even try - and, well, that doesn't leave a blog based mostly on writing in any kind of a good place, does it?
Maybe I'll buck up and get over it. Surely I'm not going to change my major based on this. I've let similar bouts of perfectionist paralysis mess up my schooling far too many times. So for now, my three dear readers, I shall do my best to overcome this. Bear with me, but don't be afraid to push me, either. And, over all, thanks for everything.
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