Thursday, November 28, 2013
Every day I think about writing. Not merely acknowledging it's a task I should do, want to do, but composing sentences and stringing them together into paragraphs and then sections while I wait at the railway station or wash my hands at the toilets. But I don't write. I read a lot, and generally. I read fiction for my own pleasure, articles and essays online, all sorts of pieces to edit, and dip in and out of social media like a fussy gannet. A fussy and seemingly insatiable gannet. The nature and quality of the content doesn't seem to matter. Nothing wants to come out. There is just so much noise in the world. In fiction and non-fiction. Online and off. So much. And so much of it is empty. A cacophany of ultimately impactless voices. I have no desire to add to that, nor do I have the necessary audacity to believe I have something unique which needs to be heard. Cultivate silence, and be content.