One Hundred And Going

 You probably knew that when I got to 100 posts I was going to write about it. I just can’t help myself. Like my dad’s old cell mate Hammer told him, “Ron, when I drink, I just got to get on my motorcycle and ride. It’s an irresistible impulse!” (that would famously be his defense when he represented himself in court). I may be a compulsive writer (is that a thing?) instead of a rider… yet I’m riding this creative buzz: a lot of things can happen when you replace alcohol with caffeine. 

“Something unresolved lingers through routine activity”…that’s a quote I just ripped off YouTube, from a video about creepy Florida towns (of course). And it just resonated with me, like the perfect sentence to describe what I do, or rather the atmosphere a writer is surrounded by. So much of life is potential material, and the urge to write about it is a constant hum (I’ll admit that sometimes I’m so uninspired. Unless I’m writing pieces like this). It’s a dormant volcano: it’s bound to blow. It’s the undercurrent. It’s the voice that says hey that’s good, write that down. It’s the bud of a blossoming story. If you’re a real writer, you’re not content unless you’re living your purpose. 

There’s a lot of backspace and delete and misspelled words and just sitting in front of the screen until the next good sentence comes along. It can be lonely, but it’s so gratifying that I don’t require company. Yet there’s a strong connection to humanity in it, as you know your writing will be read by your future audience. And the silence? I just tune the radio to a talk station. Right now there is a bird barking at me. It suffices.

Id love to rant on ad nauseam; I love when I can achieve both quality (and who’s the judge of that?) and quantity in my pieces, but it’s a rare thing. Those qualities usually collide in my longer stories, which I’m slightly more proud of. But nothing wrong with short and sweet. I have deleted some posts, just because I wasn’t happy with them. I would be lying if i said I didn’t sometimes write out of boredom.

Sometimes I think I’m running out of stories. But as long as I keep living the stories will make themselves. I don’t want to live through any more horrors, but the truth is that, with time and reflection, it can be the best stuff to write about. It’s a bittersweet thing. 

Cheers to one hundred.

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