Short and sweet

I'm writing this in a fit of anger. You've been warned.

I fucking hate it when you work so fucking hard on a blog entry and your fucking computer crashes. You lose everything: your sought-after links, your commentary, your Bjork CD in iTunes, your one moment of salvation in an otherwise dreary, stupid day when you feel connected to the terrain of words, like a master gardener finding that precious and holy connection with the dirt. This is my time to try to exercise the feeble beginnings of my writing career, and I've been fighting the tedium and mindless bullshit that gets in my way all fucking day.

So, I sit down, retrieve my links from my Web mail, fire up some music to get me in an abstract state of mind and off to the races I go.

Then, about three-quarters of the way through, just when the end is in sight and I can wrap up a semi-solid attempt at being insightful, wise and oh-so clever, the machine slowly dies. Can't flip between open windows, can't type any more words, can't even do a panic-driven interrupt of applications to try to knock off the fussy bastard dragging the whole thing down.

So, it's gone. All gone, with the machine smirking at me as the starting of start-up screens go rolling by. I try to live up to my end of the bargain of writing everyday and everything just tries to get in my way. So, fuck it. You all will get my blog essay tomorrow. I had to rethink it. I'm trying my best here, so bear with me. I'm just started to feel hounded, like I have to prove myself as a writer, at least died knowing I had a semblance of talent. I'm insecure enough as is, and going to a reading Sunday night didn't help matters any. I'll write a bit more about that later, too.

Long rant shortened: When I sit at my desk is my time to feel alive and vital, and I have little windows of opportunity to channel whatever energies I have left at the end of day make myself believe I can write. I'm scared that some great door is about to close and I'll be trapped on the other side, that wannabe, runner-up side forever with my half-written journals and snatches of dialogue, lamenting the loss of time and childish scrawls which deluded me into thinking that I could utter a meaningful sentence. This scares me...to just lose out, to be late with the great idea, to be only fondling a half-formulated concept...to be an undeveloped, bitter soul, only understanding what I missed when it's far too late.

French Word of the Day

morgue: (mohrg): arrogance, haughtiness