I can’t think of any other reason to justify the existence of this blog–other than having something of value to share. I could just believe, like Ayn Rand, in the virtue of selfishness. Or maybe, in our increasingly isolated and meaningless lives, I could use this blog to avoid what Douglas Coupland termed in Generation X, the “Emotional Ketchup Burst”: “The bottling up of opinions and emotions inside oneself so that they explosively burst forth all at once, shocking and confusing employers and friends–most of whom thought things were fine.” I have this quote on my cubicle wall.
It’s hard–day in, day out–not to say anything about the gray, soul-stealing blandness of your pencil-pushing existence.
Or maybe what I most fear is the truest reason of all: blogs are just the newest excuse not to work on your novel…
Don’t get me wrong. It isn’t that I dislike my job. I just dislike going. I dislike very much all the time it takes. And most of all, I dislike the fact that I’m bound and gagged, prevented from saying anything disparaging about my well-known corporation, who shall heretofore and forthwith remain nameless. It isn’t even that I don’t think quite highly of the corporation I work for, the work they do, and the lives they constantly touch. It’s just that like many my age, I’m restless and disaffected. Overworked and underpaid.
I suppose it’s just fortunate blogs exist.
More on that tomorrow.