Writing

Writing. I like writing. So, what's my problem ? Apart from being a champion procrastinator, that is. I dunno. Reader, please comment. You know me (to some degree or other).

Here's what I want my writing to be. I want it to be a pleasure to read. I want it to reflect the wit I have. Those who know me closely will not deny that I am witty. And if they do, then my writing issues plunge considerably in rank.

I appreciate brevity. I like the short cutting slash, rather than the extended pounding into powder. I think I ramble too much. Do you think I ramble too much ? Do I need a scissor-happy editor, or at least, turn into one myself occasionally ? (Poe-person, pray ponder and pronounce !)

I use all those other keys on the keyboard that few other use - the semicolon, the colon, the hyphen. And what's more - I may be mistaken (or may be not) - I am pretty sure I know how to use them. And yet, I tend to abuse the brackets (abuse, in the sense of over-use, not in the sense of depraved sexual acts(A bracket ? I wonder what rule 34 has brought forth (let us so NOT go there) ) ) While this last example was a bit extreme (and reminded me of days when I coded C++), you get the idea. So does my overuse of brackets add to my rambling ? Is it worth the humor ?

At which point, I am reminded of something one of my best friends once said (and which, upon searching for, I can't find, so I'll just approximate), "If you knew how much I had to work at my humor, you wouldn't find it so funny."

(Mr. Musing, when you come across this, and if you still remember, post up the original in the comments.)

Before I started writing this blog, I hadn't written anything for quite a few years. Any prose, that is. I've kept playing around with verse, and my verse is a bit better. (And for those who know of my baking skills, you will realize that I usually stuck for batter and for verse !)
I did write a little, but very little. I'll put up an example I unearthed today later. I avoided writing because - this sounds whacked off, I know - I couldn't stop. Allow me to explain. I used to keep a diary. But I would end up putting in each and every little thing that happened that day, and it would go on and on. Imagine going to bed at 11pm and not sleeping till 1am because you simply couldn't stop, couldn't disregard, couldn't ignore one tiny thing that skipped the attentions of your pencil. It was frustrating, and I couldn't stop. It became so bad after a while that I had a "complete diary" entry in my To-Do list, because I had just jotted down events and decided I couldn't write about them just then, as it was too late, and so would complete it across the weekend or something. Ofcourse, I never did. I still have the diaries, with blank pages and barely legible jotting-loaded margins. Several times I decided to forget the 'Daily Diary' and just write up on events and happenings in my life free style. Never got around to do that either (did I mention procrastination?)

Occasionally, cleaning out my closet, I come upon the diaries. Some entries open a window to the past, to incidents I can't forget, or cant't remember, but gain an insight on anyway, looking through the eyes of a much younger me. Some, on the other hand, are just insipid happennings that I wrote down for the heck of. Eitherways, I'm still glad for whatever I did put down.

Which is why I want to write this blog. Because when I look back from some point in time, I want to be able to know how I felt about things, and which were the things I felt about. So that I can see where I came from, and where I went, and what I found down those paths, and how it changed me and how I changed it.