Typing
Typing is like running, in a way. Running for a goal. "I need to get four pages written by tomorrow or I'm going to flunk Western Civ." Running for health. Running to get away. Running running running typing typing typing....
I'm typing. I type every day of my life. I type to communicate. I type to play. I type to inform. I type to run.
I type because I'm scared of what happens when I stop typing. I type because I don't know what there will be of me.
I've had good friends describe me as "anal" when it comes to Gossamer Commons. When it comes to Websnark. I say random things. Stuff about consistency, or best practices, or audience expectation, or building readerships. The things you say. The things you always say.
I don't know how to tell them how scared I am. How I know if the blog goes empty too long, or the webcomic doesn't update... how ephemeral it all feels to me. It's the internet. If I disappeared tomorrow, then next week the sands would cover over the marks I have made, and no one would ever know I was there.
And so I type. I type every day. I type and write and try my damnedest to make the marks deep. But they're never deep enough.
And people tell me "oh, you ought to write a novel." Like I haven't. Like I don't write short stories. Like I don't take a shot at the forms that might -- might endure.
The simple truth is, they're not good enough. I'm not good enough. I can write five thousand words of blog entry that make people weep, but my short stories suck ass.
And so I write more blog entries. I write more webcomics. I write more columns. Because if I stop, there won't be anything left. I'll be hollow. I'll be nothing.
And then there are nights like tonight, with the shrieking in my ears that never ends and the work that goes on and on and on... and I realize I want to lie down next to my words. I want to lie down and let the sands cover us both, until there's nothing left.
It sounds attractive to me.
And that scares me more.
And so I'm writing all the more. Because I don't dare stop. I'm scared of who I'll be if I do.
I'm typing. I type every day of my life. I type to communicate. I type to play. I type to inform. I type to run.
I type because I'm scared of what happens when I stop typing. I type because I don't know what there will be of me.
I've had good friends describe me as "anal" when it comes to Gossamer Commons. When it comes to Websnark. I say random things. Stuff about consistency, or best practices, or audience expectation, or building readerships. The things you say. The things you always say.
I don't know how to tell them how scared I am. How I know if the blog goes empty too long, or the webcomic doesn't update... how ephemeral it all feels to me. It's the internet. If I disappeared tomorrow, then next week the sands would cover over the marks I have made, and no one would ever know I was there.
And so I type. I type every day. I type and write and try my damnedest to make the marks deep. But they're never deep enough.
And people tell me "oh, you ought to write a novel." Like I haven't. Like I don't write short stories. Like I don't take a shot at the forms that might -- might endure.
The simple truth is, they're not good enough. I'm not good enough. I can write five thousand words of blog entry that make people weep, but my short stories suck ass.
And so I write more blog entries. I write more webcomics. I write more columns. Because if I stop, there won't be anything left. I'll be hollow. I'll be nothing.
And then there are nights like tonight, with the shrieking in my ears that never ends and the work that goes on and on and on... and I realize I want to lie down next to my words. I want to lie down and let the sands cover us both, until there's nothing left.
It sounds attractive to me.
And that scares me more.
And so I'm writing all the more. Because I don't dare stop. I'm scared of who I'll be if I do.