Why I Hate To Blog (or rather, Why I Suck At It)

As many of you noticed, I’ve had a series of blogs over the years but have had limited activity on each and every one of them. I can’t say I’m surprised when I’m constantly being asked the same thing by friends and family: “Are you really going to wear that outfit in public?” And then, if they have the time or interest, they ask me, “When are you going to post something on your blog?” I find I always give the same response: I shout “Look over there,” point to an imaginary centaur (or imaginary condor, depending on my mood) and then run away, often while giggling softly.

The truth is—and this is very embarrassing to say coming from an up-and-coming travel writer—I hate to write. I love (love love) coming up with something creative, crafty, or (and some say this has yet to happen) humorous. I enjoy when the perfect combination of words comes to mind (specifically to my mind). And I roll around the floor in an intoxicated stupor like a tabby high on catnip whenever I see my words reproduced on the printed page, or even online. Of course, it’s most rewarding when someone else chooses to publish my words, but even a self-posted blog entry is an ego boost.

The mental act of writing is actually extremely rewarding. When I first discovered writing way back in 1991, I saw it as a means to make a living, a way to avoid the rituals of real world employment. Not that I actually did any writing; I merely dreamt of making my living as a writer. Since then, I’ve had my ups and downs of inspiration (as well as perspiration), but with limited success. After moving to Santa Barbara, and with the help of many supportive and inspirational friends, my work has appeared in two magazines, a book of short stories (where I appear with two people whom I know and respect and whom I’m grateful to say I’m in a book with), and on two travel websites. Not enough to retire on, but enough to give me potential momentum to do more.

And to be fair, I’ve written a lot. I’ve got tons of articles and stories. Most are still in my head or on scraps of paper, and 99% of my body of work remains incomplete. But that doesn’t mean I’m not doing a huge amount of mental work.

The truth is, I hate the physical aspect of writing. My hands cramp up when I hold a pen (I suffer from a form of tendinitis), and my handwriting looks like the results of a pathological liar’s polygraph test. Typing is also painful, but it’s also mind-numbing. (Plus, I never learned how to type properly, which can only add to the annoyance of pushing keys down repeatedly in unintuitive combinations on the QWERTY pattern.) I suppose I’m doing something wrong to derive pain from tapping the keys—perhaps I’m typing too  hard, or perhaps my hands aren’t ergonomically positioned, or perhaps the keyboard is a piece of crap and should have been replaced years ago with an up-to-date version. I approach the keyboard like I do a class on Icelandic history, treating it as tedious and something to be endured. I know that the results are rewarding and, if only seldom, profitable. But the journey is long and tiresome. Not really, but sometimes that how I approach it. The heart wants what the heart wants, and in my case, the mind thinks what the mind thinks.

And there are other evil forces conspiring to keep me from writing. There are a number of distractions presented to me on a daily basis: outings with my friends, hanging out with my housemates, concerts, parties, bookshops…even being in the privacy of my own room provides more entertainment than I can endure. (As a kid, being sent to my room was never a good punishment. Too much stuff to play with in there. Old habits die hard.) And I’ve never been one to turn down invitations. I have a great group of friends. Why wouldn’t I want to play with them?

And of course, there are my friend’s blogs. Love my friends, love their blogs. But it can get overwhelming trying to keep up with everyone’s blogs, posting comments on each, linking my blog entries to theirs…it’s all too much. Again, if it’s what the mind thinks and truly believes, it might as well be reality…

And then there’s the timing. The last thing I want to do after a long day at work is work on my writing. Or write when it’s sunny and I want to go outside. Or write when it’s cloudy and gloomy and puts me in the worst mood to write. Or any other time of day, type of weather, or level of humidity. Excuses, excuses…

And then there’s the problem of perfection. I’m not one to write straight through, edit once, and post. I have to jot down ideas, form a rough draft a week later, let it sit for a month, come back to it, edit, rewrite, and then put it somewhere as I forget about it for a month. Then I come across it while looking for something completely unrelated, stare at the unfinished masterpiece, and promise to come back to it when the momentum comes back. Like any type of power, steam is only great until you run out of it.

(Case in point: I’ve had this piece nearly completed for over a month! Yikes!)

Of course, all of these things are poor excuses, and nothing more. Actually, they’re not excuses so much as explanations. Poor explanations. The truth is, I love writing and I want to do more of it. Both for financial gain and the pleasure of writing if only for myself and a few people who want to read what I have to say. But I love all the other things in my life. So what’s a boy to do?

Well, I’ve started to gain momentum in that area. I’ve slowly been eliminating the little distractions from my life. I’ve seriously stepped away from music for the most part, barely playing guitar and not playing anything else. I’ve reduced the language study, focusing on the few I’ll actually need for an upcoming trip instead of the dozen or so when I feel cocky. I’ve even stopped going out as much. (And contrary to popular belief, I didn’t eliminate a big distraction from my life. That is to say, anything significant that was in my life that is no longer was never considered a distraction.)

But nature abhors a vacuum, and it’s easy to let other distractions fill the voids. The trick is to fill the voids with writing. I’m getting better, but I’m not there yet. But I’ve been taking steps to getting more focused. I’m taking typing lessons. I’m looking at sites I want to write for and making a submission calendar. My mother teases me because I made lists for everything when I was younger, but they helped. And they still do, just as long as I don’t get too caught up in the list itself. It’s too easy to revise the due dates to fit my laziness. After all, the beauty of a checklist is that you get to check things off. Obvious, but often forgettable.

But the one thing I cannot forget is that I can’t keep dreaming about having become a writer. I need to focus on becoming a writer. And that relies less on inspiration and more on buckling down and foregoing the fun things in order to crank out one or five or ten pages a day or so. And I’m lousy of that. But the joy in being bad at something is that there’s always room for improvement.

But one has got to want to improve. And I do.

So to all of you who know I’ve been a lousy writer, this is my way of saying: I’m back, and I’m going to be less lousy. Promise.

And yes, I am going to wear this outfit in public.

Comments

[Patrick]

Keep at it compadre, every day; ride the momentum you build, every day, before work, at work, after work, every day. In other words, do as I say not as I do.

[ClubPenguinCheats]

The last thing I want to do after a long day at work is work on my writing.

[Christian louboutin heels]

Congratulations Corey. I remember feeling very similiar when finishing my first novel. I also write late at night and had no one to call. Instead of calling someone, I wrote about how fantastic it felt in my journal. I still look at the entry when I need some spirit boosting.

I look forward to reading your book.

[elliptical reviews]

No offense, but i suggest admin adding a google+ button for easy share!