Musing on writing as a form:

A flashback post, and igniting were thoughts generated on the mechanics of writing, as for me, personally. And despite a way-shitload of subject matter, could sometimes feel no real emotional plea to sit at my laptop and formulate the appropriate words. In some way, the literary desire has been overshadowed by some real heavy, bad shit coming in real time, in real life.

End of April, the blog turns 19 years with 4,740 posts, a lot of words.

And all of this off a post from more than two years ago, or maybe considering the current nowadays, in the ‘Before Times‘ (a mini-phrase usually to illustrate the time prior to COVID), and my personal essence of actually writing the words to form sentences, paragraphs, eventually becoming a published post for Compatible Creatures.
Aptly titled, “I … Am A Writer,” the post’s lede explains:

Originative writing is an art form for the mentally disturbed. An actuality proven by history and reality. Yet nowadays there are thousands, literally hundreds of thousands of writers out ‘there‘ (beyond my location, into the murky depths of everywhere, all at once, all the time), which displays our status on how the insane function in the light of writing shit that other people read, maybe even become influenced by, and then spread whatever subject important to the mundane across the wide public of the ignorant to the still-more ignorant– modern life encapsulated in words.
Writing in this clusterfuck era of deadly, dangerous, and deleterious activities is a cruel mystery. Especially if you’re easily captured by the whims of emotion. Astounding the amount of raw, ugly material to draw from in writing on just about anything that’s been cross-bled into current events (exploits that reverberate on way-so-many levels) with today’s agenda bubbling over with horror tales of immensely-varied descriptions. And how to energize when the action-setting rhythm-wind is being constantly sucked out of you?

And multiply it a thousandfold for the right now, 24 months, and one really, really bad year later, life feels the same, except worse, maybe.
Concluded the November 2023 piece:

An observation on that stated point close to home. In my mid-teens, I’d already collected a small cardboard box full of short stories, novels, and poems, all unfinished, all in various stages toward some kind of conclusion. However, my reasoning was not from shit being crappy, but more I’d just lost interest quickly in whatever project I was working on at the time — never showing the material to anyone, but just writing maybe as a private matter. Although I kept that same box for quite a while, even into my college years, I’ve no idea what happened to it.
Finishing a thing in my calculation isn’t the sole reason for starting — it’s the actual writing, not the ending.

Case similar in point: My first (and most likely my only) novel was published in March 2022 after being sequestered in another cardboard box for more than 20 years — if you’d like, read my initial post of the event — and for all intents and purposes it was just a matter of timing. Although finished, manuscripts on paper in a digital world will escape being read. The latest of an extended number of pleas to please buy the book can be found here, if you want

Go read the whole post, pretty good set of musing-like words.

And to close this whatever, the right-on boys:

Literary masterpiece, or most-likely not, yet here we are once again …

(Illustration out front: Pablo Picasso’s ‘Agonizing Horse,’ found here.)