Writing about writing

Periodically people will complain about my writing. Which is fine. I’m a natural complainer myself. So it would hardly be sporting if I complained about people complaining about me.

Some people complain that my writing is morbid and depressing and self-indulgent. Other people complain that my writing is repititious, writing about the same subjects over and over. Other people complain whenever I write about a political viewpoint that is contrary to theirs, they complain that I’m illogical, wrong-headed, half-baked, unversed in the true facts, and, furthermore, that I’m an asshole. Still others complain that I mis-use the English language, and attempt to uplift me and educate me about various semantic nit-pickings that they hold dear (efforts that are, alas, usually met with failure, re my education).

Before the days of the internet (and I don’t know if some of you kids remember those dark and distant days in the ancient past) I used to carry a notebook with me everywhere I went. And virtually every day I’d scribble off dozens of pages of journal entries. I have hundreds and hundreds of these journals crammed into multiple boxes in my storage locker. Endless writing by me, blathering on and on, almost entirely unread by anybody but me. . . I mostly write for myself, I guess. For my own entertainment. And as kind of a release and a form of therapy.

Nowadays, with the coming of the internet, it’s simply more convenient for me to blather into my cellphone, than onto a piece of paper in a notebook. And if anyone else wants to read these writings, that’s fine. And I generally enjoy the feedback. Even from the ones who hate my guts (and I love you, too, you dirty rotten etc etc).

But I can assure you, I’d be doing this — writin’ my li’l heart out — whether anyone was out there reading it or not. It’s just a compulsion on my part. And a fairly harmless compulsion. Aside from all the lives I’ve ruined. But that’s a story for another day.

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