My procrastination skills are epic. I’ll do any goddamn thing not to write. Yesterday I constructed a hat organizer for my closet with cardboard tubes and jute twine. Last week I leveled my yard, laid down paver sand and astroturf, and built a wooden clubhouse for my son.
I’ll shop for shelf liners on Amazon. I’ll research ways to hang a backyard swing with no trees. I’ll learn how to speak Greek with a decent accent. I’ll make my cats into gifs. I’ll cook, clean, build, bathe, drink, swim, fight, fuck when I “should” be writing.
I made this website to keep from writing a film. It’s a film no one is waiting for, that no one asked me to write. It’s about something very personal. I’m terrified to start it. But I’m more terrified to finish it. Because then I’ll realize I got it wrong.
I think I keep writing because I keep getting it wrong.
When I announced my new website to FB (which I updated last week after like 15 years), some folks mentioned they used to read my blog on that site. I was surprised; I thought the only people who read it were the people who commented, which were few and far between. I stopped blogging when I started writing for TV, around when micro-blogging (ie: twitter) took over. I got into that like everyone else, for a hot sec. But until the other day, I didn’t realize how much I missed just posting thoughts without expectation of reply. Without feeling like I let people down if they didn’t “like” my posts. Without feeling like I’m being swept away by a river of smarter funnier more insightful people.
I don’t really want to blog, though. I do long for a place to talk casually about dumb shit without anyone feeling the need to participate. Maybe that’s here…?