I wake up in the morning, I have a coffee, I check email and then I proceed with my day. What that day is like depends on external factors and the previous day. Mostly it depends on what havoc my brain chemistry is causing, so mostly I try to manage that with coffee, activity, and stimulus control.
I am often looking for a way to parse what I have already written and my continuing urges to write into something that I can publish and share in book form. Food for rage has been a dismal failure. I’m confident not a single human has or will ever read it through completely. (That’s fine. I published it from a misconception anyway.)
I just unpublished it. The people who need it have it already or have already refused it. Much of its content needs removal or revision by now anyway. That text is now in the massive pile of text I have written and saved for which I can find no useful purpose.
Organizing it, proofing it, integrating it, refining it, is an impossible task for me so far. No one would just want it all dumped into a folder, and I wouldn’t want that either. But why do I care? Why do I want readers?
Because I’m programmed to by my genes. I’m supposed to look for ways to be useful. I see things and want to share my findings. But I think I need to get over that. I realize that social media is about trading the illusion of an audience for profitable information about how to exploit it’s customers, yet I still routinely use it. Why do I do this? Because I can think of no alternative and usually I’m not thinking about it. But today I stopped.
I thought about it. And despite having no alternative I stopped anyway. I just sat there, doing nothing, ignoring the urge to pay a game or watch a tv show or go clean. I forced myself to sit and think about what do do about the writing problem. The audience problem.
How do I deliver all my stories and ideas and essays and dreams to you, my species, my family, my humanity? A book it seems is not going to happen. Perhaps the answer is a series of individual specialist blogs. A blog for dreams, a blog for ideas, a blog for social essays, a blog for story fragments, a blog for comments and reshares. Maybe I’ll do that. Maybe I won’t.
It’s not like I have a choice how I feel in either case. I’m about as free as the pictured cogs anyway.
