Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Well, that's not entirely true actually. I've probably written more so far in 2012 than I did in all of 2011. I just didn't write any of it here.
I'll avoid the in-depth and highly neurotic explanation of my absence, as I've never intended to use this blog as a personal diary on which to pour the dribble that streaks through my mind on a daily basis for the entertainment of... no one. I have a composition notebook for that and, fear not, future generations: it will be shredded once it's filled.
(In case you're wondering, because I'll admit it is unclear, my intent for this blog is to use it as an exercise room - padded walls included, fortunately - to stretch my writing muscles and from time to time examine an opinion of my own, but most commonly, to write about love and sex in the most imaginary capacity I can manage. I have no intent to "brand myself" through this blog. I just write things that I like here when something that sounds good ends up on my fingertips or computer screen, and it's usually in spite of my chaotic mind rather than because of it that that happens.)
Suffice it to say that when something you love so much (writing, words, language) becomes directly linked to what is causing you the most stress in your overwhelmingly stressful life (my as-of-recently former job), mustering the energy and strength and, frankly, desire to do it for yourself, for fun, becomes impossible. At least for me.
Okay, now I will offer an explanation on that very quickly just in case anyone whom I'm currently trying to convince to contract me stumbled over here: writing every day for work is exactly what I want to do. And I will always do it as long as that's my job. But when it becomes a source of panic and pain, like it had recently because of... excuse me, bullshit (there's no other term to use here), that's all the polished writing I can bring myself to do. The unpolished drivel that leaks onto the pages of the aforementioned notebook would never belong in a place where eyes other than mine might find it.
I'm really doing you all, dear readers, a favor with my temporary absences. It's for the good of your soul, I swear.
Also, for the record, I didn't get fired, and I'm vain enough to feel the need to write that here, now.
I would love to say that I'll be back to posting regularly, but as my life has just been shaken up again in a very big way, I am in no position to offer a promise like that. I would also love to say that there's a reason you should come back to check, but that would mean I'd have to find a way to describe the theme of this blog that isn't "a sporadically-updated collection of bad 'poetry', honest and confused ramblings on reality, short fiction, creative non-fiction, and sometimes non-fiction disguised as fiction because I changed two details about what actually happened, concerning the thoughts and experiences of a hopeless 23-year-old, which revolve, more often than not, around love, sex, and 'complicated' relationships."
Doesn't quite flow, does it?
But for better or for worse, that's what alyssagoesbang is and has been for over a year now. And for some reason, a bunch of you come by and stick around long enough to get to know me. A million thanks for that, by the way, and ever more apologies.
Where have I gone with this post now?
Reasonably, the end I suppose. Hope to see you soon.