Just because there’s nothing to write doesn’t mean you shouldn’t write it

There was going to come a day when I had nothing blogworthy to say, when the fiddly administrative details of my day to day life were sitting their fat asses on my creative spirit, blocking my wind pipe. But you know what? Today is not going to be that day. And you know what else?  The fact that I’m swamped, overwhelmed and still in my pyjamas mid-day, ready to rip my head off, is blogworthy.

Just because I found out that I’ve been writing personal cheques on my line of credit, thousands of dollars worth, incurring unnecessary debt because I forgot I had two kinds of cheques for two types of accounts. Just because I had to spend 45 minutes of my valuable, literary time (using my most indignant, you-done-me-wrong voice) arguing with the bank that it couldn’t possibly have been me, that I haven’t touched that line of credit in almost two years, that the error was on their end, and I won’t be penalized for it, then more minutes eating humble pie with chop sticks, when they tell me who the first of those cheques was made out to, and I realized without a shadow of a doubt, that it was me that wrote all of them, shouldn’t mean I can’t turn it all around, dig deep within myself and write something blogworthy.

Let’s be clear blogworthy and literary can be, but are not the same thing. And given the simple, self-publishing nature of the blog, blogworthyness is rarely in the eyes of the beholder, but in that of the creator. Only google analytics knows for sure, but I suspect most bloggers don’t care, and likely many blog readers don’t either.

Not all of us have the optimistic and self-deluded notion that something viral, life-affirming, and book deal-ish may come of it. 900,000 daily new blog articles, enough to fill the pages of the New York Times for 19 years, suggests that most bloggers just want to tell their friends what they ate, where they shopped, how crappy they are feeling, how stretchy their vaginal mucous is, how little Charlotte threw a pudding cup against the wall, with the arm of Babe Ruth or Joe DiMaggio.

What makes blogs exciting, unexpected, trite or inane, is that anything and everything goes. We now live in a world where we can, and want, to publish our innermost musings and personal diary entries, as often as possible.

I’m a firm believer that if you can write it well, then it’s worthy of putting out there. It costs nothing but time (and is unlikely to contribute to the economy). No one designed it, illustrated it, copied or bound it. No one wrapped it in newsprint, secured it with string or tape, shipped it by mail, truck or plane. No garbage dump will swell, no carbon footprint be made for its presence in the world. And while we haven’t sorted out the virtual impact of all this word garbage, at the moment it seems benign.

So instead of feeling sorry for my unwashed self, or suffocating from the pressure of so many fiddly bits, I’ve elbowed my administrivia hard enough to get a word in edgewise, and now offer it to you.

So my once-a-week quota is met, my readers, whoever you might be - hopefully eager and expectant - are not disappointed. And the world is, with any luck, a little amused and not worse off, for daily blog post number 900,001.


I got a kick out of this, or wish I did...!
My 2nd to last blog was about having nothing to say & yes must conjure it up sometimes, and no, I don't own pajamas, but old t-shirts, no bra & unbrushed teeth count.
Anne Avery turned me on to your blog. I'm enjoying it!


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