Blogging at work

Another day under the same sky. I'm currently sitting here at work, enjoying a partially dimmed sun, and trying to figure out what to do with all my dead time between customers. When getting drunk isn't really an option I don't really know what to do with myself. I considered doing some interpretive dance for a moment before I realized that I have no idea whatsoever what that even is. So I decided that the best course of action was to pull up my iPod, light a cigarette, and write something. But of course I have nothing to write about.

Sometimes I wish i was a professional writer. Those guy seem to have their life cut out for them. I already got the basic laid out for me, if professional writing is anything like it's portrayed in Californication, with the alcohol, women and the constant despair. And I assume it's just like that. But what I don't understand is how they can get their thoughts down on paper so easily. Or in my case, into a first generation iPod. Take that woman who wrote those Harry Potter books. Just one of those books is more than what I've written in a lifetime. And she wrote seven of them. And everyone of them were better than the last. The fact that she was able to write all those books about some annoying, paranoid kid with a scar in his face is just amazing. Kudos to you, woman who I don't remember the name of.

I still try though. And sometimes I get something decent down. Sometimes I get some pseudo-intellectual rambling out that’s barely understandable. But most of the time it's just bad. Take my last post for example. I read it over this morning and I have no idea how I could let that thing go public. It's awful. You could go to a random 14 year old's blog and get some rambling about their new pair of shoes and how they make them feel and you'd still be better off reading that.

But the fact is that most of the things that comes out of my head looks like that. I got a folder full of word-document containing about 100-200 word of nothingness each that will never see the light of day. They be stored on my hard-drive forever. Mocking me.

The thing is that I can't delete them neither. I need them to be there. To remind me how not to write. They are my shame and yet they are the only thing that strives me to become a better writer.