Epiphany: Late Night

Late one night, after putting my youngest to sleep and thinking about the sorts of stories I want to tell, I realized that what holds me back from creating anything was the idea that I need to create works of lasting import, when I have zero interest in doing so. If I want to be ridiculous, I should just be ridiculous. Who gives a flying fuck? I thought to myself. What a moment! Such freedom! BE RIDICULOUS, I thought. I once wrote a novella from the viewpoint of a goose (yes, very, very loosely based on "Untitled Game," if we'd been inside the goose's head). It was madcap, mostly terrible, but the most fun I've ever had writing anything. 

Maybe not Harry Keeler levels of ridiculousness, though (I think).

Last night (ok, this morning), as I tossed and turned and waited for sleep that was maddeningly elusive, I thought -- blog. You know, instead of dumpster-fire Twitter, which is fine for short jaunts but irritating for long reads (I will read almost every thread that comes across my feed, but there comes a point, about halfway through, that I think, dammit, why didn't you just write a fucking blog post?)

I'd hate to start a blog only for Google to decide, mid-2021, that it's cutting Blogger free -- so, hopefully, it won't. I spent a lot of time imagining what it might be like to be a dedicated Blogger employee at Google headquarters these days (I mean, what else was I going to do? Sleep?) -- well, pre-pandemic days. Stuck in a lonely broom closet at the end of a deserted hallway, the last remaining holdout of the Good Old Blogging Days. Stuffy, dusty air. The constant urge to nap.

Blogging is dead, or so they say, almost a dirty word online these days. I mean, what are you doing if it's not in digestible little chunks sent out a sentence at a time, preferably with lots of visuals? Do you even social media, bro?