This post would be more correctly titled “Why I’m not Writing for Myself”, since I am writing loads, but for others.
Social media management is one fragment of my fragmented life these days, so I’m facebooking and Tweeting and such anonymously for others, and find I don’t at all mind the mindlessness of pretending to be someone else who has something to gain from glib verbosity. In fact, I rather enjoy plucking words from air that I’m not wed to … that’s the words, not the air, since breathing still commands my days and nights.
For those who haven’t sussed out the diff between my English and Ernesto’s, I patrol his pages and respond to all varieties of the sycophantic and moony-eyed, as well as the truly-impressed-by-genius, who post.
(sycophante, or via Latin from Greek sukophantēs ‘informer,’ from sukon ‘fig’ + phainein ‘to show’ ; the association with informing against the illegal exportation of figs from ancient Athens (recorded by Plutarch) is not substantiated.)
I do likewise … but sans the figs and the emotional attachment … with other sites, to some advantage to all.
I should also be turning my attention to the fiction that stews and brews and begs fruition, but life gets in the way these days. The Spicemans nag daily. and notes, thoughts and more drift constantly upward, only to be squashed under drifts of real life.
Could I be writing about law suits and the feckless ex and real estate sales and dog-chewed bumpers and my dealings with Cleo (Queen of Denial) and the bazillion ways I can’t process Jaren, and my mother’s decent, and the Kon Tiki of fam issues, and being stuck on a rock and needing a break?
Mon pa think so, mon ker.
I hold hope that some Vesuvius erupts … although this week that would have to be an Eyjafjallajokull … forcing a disgorging of petrified prose newly molten, steaming and demanding flow, but it ain’t happening today.