I’ve been experiencing a bit of a block for the past few days. Some of it is related to cat-death, which makes it hard to care about much of anything. Some of it involves grown-@$$ men who fail to comprehend the purpose or benefit of a laundry hamper — seriously, my life is like an ongoing Easter Egg hunt, except replace “Easter Eggs” with “crusty, balled-up tube socks, none identical.” Some of it is suicidal ideation, which — though others might disagree — I believe is a valid form of creative expression, akin to writing crime fiction. And some of it stems from a comment I received, one along the lines of “if you blog, you won’t have ideas/energy left for your fiction.”
Well, the end result of all of this is that — at the moment — I am neither blogging nor writing fiction. I think I may be broken. Hopefully it’s the kind of broken that can be fixed by getting clouted with a wrench or similar.
But it did get me thinking about why I blog, and here’s what I’ve come up with:
1.) I enjoy it.
Now, that ought to be enough, but apparently it’s not. So:
2.) My writing — not unlike my virginity in high school* — is something I can’t even give away. Hell, I don’t think I could pay someone to take it off my hands.
3.) Somehow, I doubt that posting pictures of my cats and the badness they manage to achieve without the advantage of opposable thumbs (They can open doors! That’s messed up, right?) or my reactions to such cultural artifacts as The MILF Diet prevents me from writing the Great American Novel. (Which, anyway, has never been my ambition, because who wants to be loathed by generations of high school students?)
4.) I already have a job where I get paid to write (also, read). It pays me a living wage and comes with benefits. It’s amazing and I am ridiculously fortunate to have gainful employment doing something I love. And I’m not greedy. I feel as though, materially speaking, I’ve got enough to be content. An additional revenue stream wouldn’t have any noticeable impact on my general sense of well-being**.
5.) Blogging turns out to be one of the ways I stay reasonably sane…especially when circumstances deprive me of all the other methods of maintaining some semblance of sanity. And that’s in everyone’s best interest, I think.