The Failure of Fidelity

I don't really blog. I've tried, numerous times, through different methods, all to meet with the inevitable void of "forgotten-all-about-it". What it comes down to is the nature of the "blog". For most people it is either an online bitch-fest or a journal. When I bitch, I bitch to close friends who will give me advice that matters, or console me in the way they know I need to be consoled. When I keep a journal I keep a journal. In my drawer. In my desk. In my house. It's no list of dirty secrets waiting to be uncovered by later generations, who will pen down my scandalous personal life and sell "truth" to the jabbering nest of public appetites, but I'm certainly not going to post it for the world. The problem is that mainstream blogs are where people write about themselves for other people to read.

I don't like to write about myself. And there is a negligible amount of people who would really want to read what I think. Even were I a famous author like Patrick Rothfuss or Neil Gaiman (whose blogs I admittedly do read, and I am grateful they don't mind writing about themselves) I still doubt I could manage the energy and dedication. Anything significant or interesting I might find worth the trouble I don't have the resources or experience to make a reality. And while many of my friends have blogs where they post writing, I feel that if I want to get published someday (however hopeful that dream might be) it will do me little good to have my writing posted online. It would be a quick and easy way to attain feedback and critiques, but I get those things from the same people I bitch to, who I know will give the best thought and effort, and who I trust to be honest. Yet time and time again I am prompted to start a blog. To keep reflections or post my opinions where other people can read them. Unfortunately, however selfish it is, I find that so boring. I love to read about my friend's day, but it is such a hassle to write about mine. I only ever even retreat to my journal if something arises which I must "deal" with. The journal doesn't see me on sunny days.

But I do like to write, and people (evidently) want to hear about my very average and boring life. And to my geographically distant friends at least, I feel I owe something. So, a compromise then! To make this interesting for me, in order that I will hopefully be compelled to keep posting, I will conduct all following entries like creative writing exercises. I absolutely reserve the right to lie to you through fantastically absurd embellishments should I begin to drift with boredom, or if there is nothing exciting happening. I'll start easy and slow, I think, and try to post once a week.

This week I'll begin short and simple with the average yet almost antiquated addition of alliteration. I imagine that as a side effect many unnecessary adverbs will wobble their way in. Forgive the stubborn pen.

Rather than regale you with some ridiculous tale of my quickly receding week, as it was dull and dolefully damp with the devilishly warm weather, I shall spend a few moments spelling out the facts of myself, which I know you are sitting on the edge of your seat for.

My age is irrelevant to this exercise and likely easily intuited through contextual clues. My physical attributes suffer from a likewise superfluous state of being as far as any tall or tiny or indeed utterly fabricated tales are concerned. Coincidentally, considering the current non-geographical and purely theoretical existence of this blog, I could just as easily be some extra-terrestrial tentacle beast, built entirely of bippity-boppity-boo style magic. However, I will hold to being a homosapien.

My history follows the same forgotten fable that every feeble writer in his/her infancy fancies his/her life to be. In a simple sentence, I would suppose myself an unconventional yet conventionally uptight type of unsociable misanthrope who typically puts his/herself in a position to be pardoned from parties, preferring instead to lounge about in a lackadaisical laze of intense intellectual inquiry and irony. My interests, therefore, are part of a logical progression of these particular qualities. If you cannot guess them, then you have somehow managed an obliqueness of observation for the obvious, which has resulted in an ignorance of all social stereotypes.

In the interest of not instilling an image based solely on ambiguous allusions on my part and creative conjectures on your part, I will impart some character encasing information. Sherlock Holmes is my hero (A.C.D. style, not the supposed swashbuckling swaggler reproduced by Robert Downey, although I confess to being consequently captured by the movie as a by-product of a love that lingers from younger days) and John Watson is one of my favorite literary liaisons to the world of the fantastic. That said, I have a partiality to the particularly grotesque gloom of Gothic horror, and harbor a deeply set enamoration for the embellishments of Edgar Allen Poe and his less lucrative genre-companion H. P. Lovecraft. Dracula is my current dubious indulgement.

I do also dabble in the moor of modern magical novels, where genius's like Patrick Rothfuss, (The Name of the Wind) Neil Gaiman (Anansi Boy's) and Joe Abercrombie (The First Law Trilogy) make their pages. It is not a taboo pass time for me to peek at the television, where I have the guilty pleasures of NCIS, Numb3rs, The Big Bang Theory and Doctor Who.

I know of only one food too base and bitter tasting to my tongue to eat: Brussels sprouts.

And now, feeble as that freckle of facts may seem, it grows late in the day and I must away to dally in some other hobby. I wish you well for the week.

My love,

until our next little lie.