Sometimes this writing thing doesn’t come particularly easy. Lots of times I’ll feel this almost painful ache to write something but nothing comes out. I’ll wait while you make constipation jokes. Done? Great. But seriously, the inner creative voice always is in some sort of minor skirmish with the inner critic and while the great deal of blathering I do here at the Experiment would probably lead you to believe that I killed my inner critic with some sort of blunt force trauma and a 9MM enema, the critic usually wins the battle. I just spent 45 minutes trying to write something about code as inventory and nothing came out. I need a literary suppository.
I’m three fingers into a bottle of Balvenie and still, nothing. Writing is hard even to people that find writing easy. For every essay or idea that comes bursting forth from our heads fully formed and in battle armor all Athena-like, there are 20 more that decidedly more normal in birth and wonder or that get aborted before ever seeing the light of day. Like any talent, writing still requires work and sometimes the result of that work is a big pile of crap that sits in our Drafts folder if it’s lucky or gets deleted outright if it’s not.
I don’t have any amazing insights to share from this. After all, I’ve already said that I’m stuck tonight. I recently had a discussion with a friend about the relative merits and demerits of the ease of publishing on the web. His argument was that quality suffered when anyone with internet access and a blog could publish crap on the web and apparently, I’m trying to add data points to his argument tonight. To mitigate my crappy data point, go read about keeping your identity small. I’ve got an entire post about it but it’s crap too so you’re better off reading the good stuff.