This strikes me as a false dichotomy.

And a category error.

The sky is either blue or made of air. You either breathe or you talk.

This is not to say I do not understand this sentiment. All work is work. Writing included. Things are what they are. But writing is living. At least for me. And, for that matter, for everyone else as well. This is because writing cannot be done if one is not alive.

And, a funny thing about writing, when you think about it–when you really get down on your hands and knees and take a good close look at it–is that it is something practically everyone knows how to do. It is possibly the most common endeavour a human being may undertake.

Compared to other forms of endeavour, even in the arts: painting, sculpture, the composition of music, even the performance of music written by others… Compared to these things, writing is effortless. Some of us are compelled to do it, no matter what other much more difficult things we are able to do; but still, although one might chafe to hear it articulated, it is the easiest among them. Easiest of them all. And when compared to other endeavours not entirely artistic, such as writing a well formed piece of software, building a bridge, designing a rocket engine that can achieve escape velocity, inventing and developing a new type of technology, or even developing a further and more abstract form of mathematics, it pales. By such things, it is eclipsed in every possible way.

But there are writers who stand out. Sometimes. It is, after all, hard work to become proficient at anything. And when one does what is necessary, one might number among the best, at least in the eyes of some–hopefully in the eyes that matter most to the writer himself. Still, when one has achieved this nadir, one is still merely the best of the worst–compared to every other, much more difficult endeavour. It does knock one down a peg or two to consider it.

But no matter how painful it is to realise one is, at most, the best of the worst, it can put life in perspective, and curiously, make ones writing better–and ones life–which is a good thing too. Because, one must be in the process of living in order to write at all, whether at the top of ones game–and therefore the best of the worst–or not.

…I do not wish to belabour this point; however there are times wherein I feel compelled to end my fellowship–0r should I name it “followship?”

Sometimes, one reads something so unutterably foolish, that one wishes not to see–even inadvertently–such foolishness again.  I admit this is an emotional reaction.  I admit that sometimes after ending a “follow,” I will relent, because after all, such is probably being done for me over and over again.  Rash action must be admitted to be a part of the human condition, after all.
Continue reading →

…a trial, to read that which one does not understand.  And as such, I do not mean “comprehend,” since my comprehension is usually not the issue at hand.  No; for me, this is usually an issue not of failing to comprehending the message itself, but of not understanding the “why” of what I comprehend. Why was it written? Why, if it were an account, did it happen? How did another man come to see such things–to parse the meaning of such things–so differently from the way in which I see them? Why did he? Is he aware of this? Is this view genuine or deliberate? Does the writer realise, or does he not, that there is a better/more productive/more positive/more uplifting/more exalting way in which such events or thoughts may be, and perhaps should be, interpreted?

Still, I think it is particularly interesting, the way in which we often follow almost any blog.  I have mentioned in a post or two, as well as in comments, here and there,  that there are a few such blogs I do not follow.  These, in general, are:

• Those with no comments permitted–quite often not “real” blogs at all. This is whether I may choose to comment or not.
• To that I would add those who never take comments out of moderation.  I think perhaps, I’d more likely follow a blog with closed comments–providing that the content makes me happy.  This is because the author is wasting the effort of his readers in so doing.  It is perhaps even more disingenuous–or leastwise, strikes me as such.
• Also any magazine or aggregation site.  And this, for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that I just cannot bring myself to do so.
• Also, awards.  I don’t participate in these on any level, also for a variety of reasons, most of which would bore you to tears, no doubt; but which I have touched upon here and there in the past.