Typically, I can write a post in about fifteen minutes; 30 tops. If I think about it too much, I become irreversibly hemmed up in potential consequences, and talk myself out of the post. The draft list in my blogger account is massive.
It just works better for it to be off the cuff, instinctual, and reactive. I’m not angry all the time; I’m just literally writing it mere minutes after infuriating event happened. Nor am I sad all the time, just writing in the moment. I am; however, tempering the posts with patience, seeing how I’ll feel tomorrow, and fucking up the funny.
Remember last year when I was funny, and then the funny when away? My maturity got the best of me. My draft list tripled.
But I’ve got to get over this draft list nonsense, or I’ll never break free of my own inhibitions. Which has led me to the idea of just publishing rough cuts.
I feel it may be enormously entertaining just in the fact that the posts are now incomplete, meandering and completely out of synch with current events.
This will either be fantastical or a clusterfuck. But who doesn’t love a good clusterfuck.