what's all this for, again?

once upon a time, when i started this whole dingus, i had several goals in mind. over time, the blog evolved new purposes, but still, the original purpose remained: the blog as a motivator. here's how it was supposed to work: i need to post, but my life was (is) so boring that i have nothing to post but my endless, boring thoughts. so, in order not to bore my audience (me) to death, i'd "go out" and "do stuff" and then write about that. thus, the blog, my own little log-on-the-web, by its very paucity, would motivate me to get out more, which is what i really needed at that point much more than being a writer.

well, things have changed a bit since then.

now, i don't want to blog. i don't want to write. i want to go out and jump around. jump up jump up and get down.

but sometimes i don't, sometimes i can't, because at the end of the day (when it really matters) i'm still me and some things haven't changed. but one thing that has changed is that i'm cool with that now.

but the point i originally sat down to enunciate is simply this: the poor blog is getting neglected because i'm so often out, or in, even, sometimes, hosting stuff. in other words, i have what bill the shat always wanted me to get, namely, a life, and now i'm too busy-ish to write.

one of the things i realized along my little journey is that i'm a writer. not a storyteller, a writer. i love the language, the construction of sentences, the choice of just the right word to put in just the right place. that's why i created the "really?" category, because i want to make sentences, not because i want to tell a coherent story. if i'm really lucky, something spiffy will emerge from my beloved sentences, but even if nothing does, it's cool, because i enjoyed the act of creation.

...........................

i finished nick hornby's "high fidelity" and i really liked it. i liked it and i hated it, for a couple reasons. i liked it and hated it because i'm rob. it's neat that nick captured me so well, but it's disturbing that not only can he so clearly paint the inside of my head, but that also, such a painting is relatable to more people than just me. another blow to my sickly, failing sense of uniqueness. if not for a thick skin of irony and happiness i'd be crushed.

the other thing that bugs me is that i started work on a new story, the tenth unfinished one on my plate, but i'm gonna finish this one gorram it, and the problem is that i realized as i approached the end of "high fidelity" that nick has said much of what i wanted to say, only he said it better with a more interesting character. nuts. that's okay, i guess. i'll get over it (which, of course, is a main thrust of both his story and mine). mine's got the sci-fi angle, so there.

i used to not want to read a lot, because i had these stories i wanted to write and i was afraid that if i read too much, i'd eventually encounter someone who had already written my story, and then if i ever actually got around to writing my story, which more often than not never happened anyway, but if it did, then i'd be crushed when i found out that dickinson had done it thousands of years before me, and better, to boot. after a while, i decided that this idea was nonsense and that i liked books so i ought to read. so i read, and found out that i was absolutely correct. those bastards have stolen my best stories!

so it goes.