I’ve been thinking a lot about writing lately. Not blogging specifically. Just writing in general. I find myself writing in my mind while I’m going about my business during the day.
I’m not sure what format I want it to take quite yet. Of course I could utilize this blog. That would be the logical thing to do. But it smells a little too much like what I’m supposed to do. There’s all kinds of pressure that goes with this blog. Pressure to write at some frequency. To pick topics that will satisfy my two readers. To… ugh… include pictures. Who has time these days to remember to take pictures? That’s what I want to know.
And I have my journal. But my journal is not a very interactive community. It’s also very stream of consciousness. And while I enjoy the lack of restrictions, a part of me does actually want to write. (Hush now about this post. Let’s just pretend I’m not rambling.)
A part of me wants to write some fiction. If I had a bucket list (which I suppose I sort of do because I too often start sentences with “If I had a bucket list”) it would include writing a book. I often dream up plots and characters and all that jazz. But I’m really not the dedicated writer. Not in the way that all those other bloggers are. The ones who are writing books and reading books about writing books and doing all sorts of other dedicated-ish things. I’m really not that passionate about it. Maybe a short story. Eh, let’s start with a blog post.
I’ve also been entertaining the idea of starting an anonymous blog. Somewhere I can write about anything. An interactive journal. A picture-less, perhaps more interesting blog. Oh, but what if I got caught?