In my last blog post, I detailed the tenuous existence of a writer and the fine balance she must tread between soul-sucking routine and a hedonistic, undisciplined existence that allows for occasional creative outbursts but otherwise shreds one’s life (outside of writing) into a tattered, hazy, nocturnal, pulp.
I very cleverly suggested that I had the answer to this question of how to reconcile two necessary sides to a writer’s life (a skill of balance that would certainly apply for non-writers as well), and that my patient readers need only wait a week to be informed of this miraculous answer, this mystery revealed, the key to all the universe’s questions, laid bare in the likes of a mediocre, little-used WordPress blog site, occasionally updated by yours truly.
Well my friends, in this here, and in noting the difference in date between the aforementioned last, all-promising post, and this one, you will learn a truth more clear and simple than anything I might have ill-fatedly sworn to reveal to you about routines and waywardness – and that is, that writers (grossly extrapolating from my own experience of course) are skilled artists. Artists? Did I say artists? I’m sorry, I meant con-artists. Oh yes, writers can produce art, don’t get me wrong, but first and foremost, they practice their art of telling stories, by, well, telling stories, as in expanding on the truth, transforming the memory of a soggy walk home in the rain into a battle to the death with a torrential tsunami, calling on all the forces of nature to play out the war scene before our eyes, morphing the burn from a mishandled teapot into a horrible scar from a vicious street fight, turning a simple case of writer’s block into a violent revolt of one’s muses against ones own psyche and – well, you get the idea. That is all to say that writers (read: this writer) somedays experience a proclivity for melodrama and a penchant for forgetting all about said melodrama the next moment, as is their whim – and when they do experience these little tempestuous vacillations of sweeping declarations and find themselves even forgetting said declarations of say, not even a week earlier, the writers will, in all melodrama, offer their deepest and most sorrowful apologies to their all too patient readers, from the bottom of eyes welling with apologetic tears…
^If you don’t feel like digging through a pile of sorry excuses and fancy ways of apologizing/avoiding the guilt of this writer posting a blog two months late, skip to this summary: sorry I’m the worst at blogging. ❤ Maddy