Everything that goes into my mouth seems to make me fat, everything that comes out of my mouth embarrasses me.
–Gabriel García MárquezThere are worse prisons than words.
–Carlos Ruiz Zafón/The Shadow of the Wind
Last year I wrote over 168,000 words.
To put it in terms of quantity, that is about the same number of words as there are in “Tess of the D’Urbervilles,” or about 480 pages. Of course, what I write is in no way comparable to Thomas Hardy. It’s raw, unedited, un researched, and…what is a way to say it that doesn’t sound like I think it’s crap? Trivial? Casual? Introspective? Trite? Overly personal? Inconsequential?
Well, maybe it is kind of crappy, but it’s my crap, and there is a lot of it. I may not be profound, but I am prolific. I am the Stephen King of the emo blog. Actually, I like Stephen King–let’s say I am the Barbara Cartland of the emo blog. With better hair and makeup, I hope.
In the last 6 months of 2013, I wrote just over 81,000 words. So I have kept up my pace over time. If there is some sort of worth to be found in the mere act of producing a word count, then the blog has worth. It is worth something, to me anyway. It is one of the only things I have done consistently for any length of time that requires effort and discipline. I publish something every day, even if it means going without sleep. I post when I am sick. I post when I am drunk. I post when I am on a crying jag, or when I am happy.
It seems a little odd that I persevere with it considering that there is really no purpose to it, except to help me think. Most days I enjoy it, but there are certainly a lot of days when the process is painful, especially if I am writing something that stirs up something I need to work through. Certainly no one would care if I skipped a day or a month or stopped entirely. Only a handful of people read me, and it isn’t the sort of stuff you’d want to read unless you know me. It’s like not this serves some sort of greater purpose.
So at some point, I should figure out why I am doing it, if I want to take it in a different direction or stop entirely. Less words, more…substance? Some sort of goal to reach beyond just…more words?
Or is having a sounding board a good thing? I suspect if I didn’t have the self-imposed pressure to post, I would not think about many of the things I do. Which might lead to both mental and emotional atrophy. Or it might lead to greater mental health if thinking about issues is something which puts too much of a focus on them.
Since I feel so much better since starting to write, I am going with the “it’s good for me” theory, and completely disregarding how many other things that are bad for me make me feel good. This is written as I finish off a pint of IPA after singing night, and wish I had a cigarette between my lips and a good looking stranger in my bed, so I know what I am talking about.
Like with everything else going on, I will just have to see where it goes.
It’s my thing. It can be whatever I want it to be. If it’s yet another vice to add to my collection, so be it.
It’s mine, regardless.