Postscript

If you’re reading this, I’ll presume that you’ve also read the introductory post to this new blog. You probably thought it more than a little strange that I would profess my devotion to writing only to turn around and compare it to a root canal. The pain that I associate with writing would be better described as mental anguish. It emanates from a desire- no, make that a compulsion- to ensure that I’m delivering whatever message I’m trying to convey clearly, concisely, and in a manner that is pleasing to the reader. That is a talent that comes naturally to only a select few. Most folks, including yours truly, discover writing to be damned hard work unless you happen to be a graduate of the Joe Biden School of Speechwriting, where the only requirement for a diploma is to successfully pass Plagiarism 101. Selecting the correct word or phrase and applying your grammar lessons from high school English is painstaking if you care about what you write, which I do. If your writing doesn’t venture beyond jotting down the grocery list or leaving a note for the babysitter, none of that matters. Writing something that you want others to read and comprehend, whether for work or pleasure, demands a lot of effort.

I’ve thought about why I find writing enjoyable yet, at the same time, frustratingly hard work. I think I’ve arrived at a reasonable conclusion. I don’t have a talent for anything else that is tangible. I discovered in seventh grade shop class that I didn’t have much of a future in woodworking or carpentry when I got a D on my birdhouse. I earned B’s in art class not because I had even a tiny shred of aptitude for it, but because Mrs. Bonsett, the art teacher, was a nice lady and probably appreciated the fact that I at least showed up regularly. Other than showering and shaving, I can’t think of a single thing I can do with my hands competently. Okay, maybe typing. But I never considered myself a good fit for the secretarial pool. So I write, primarily for my own enjoyment and occasionally for Masonic publications.

That’s the gist of why writing appeals to me. Plus, it’s good exercise for the mind. That should explain the conflict in the first post, which was the sole purpose of this one. I’m stopping here because this post already contains more I’s than a Barack Obama speech. I don’t expect to be writing about myself very much in this blog. I neither write nor have an ounce of tolerance for touchy-feely, soul-baring, my-life-is-a-wreck-and-I’ve-got-to-get-it-off-my-chest, nobody-gets-me drivel. I thought I’d toss that out there in case you stumbled in here merely by chance and happen to be suffering from Oprah withdrawal. 

If At First You Don't Succeed

Several decades have passed since I last contemplated the musings of Dante in his epic poem Inferno, where he and his trusty guide Virgil take us on an allegorical tour of the nine circles of Hell. I found a copy on the Internet and searched through all nine circles for what I thought certain was there. I swore that one of those circles was the exclusive domain of frustrated writers suffering from terminal writer’s block, a place where the ghosts of history’s greatest wordsmiths torture its denizens unmercifully. I could practically hear the derisive taunts of Tolstoy, Joyce, Faulkner, and Wodehouse. Even worse, I envisioned myself locked in a room with Erich Segal and Jacqueline Susann as they alternately read passages of Love Story and Valley of the Dolls aloud for hours at a time. Alas, there was no such circle. Okay, as they say in politics, I misremembered. Dante had his vision of Hell and I have mine.

What’s the point of all this? I’m one of those aforementioned frustrated writers. Here’s the really sick part. I love to write. I can’t explain it. There probably is no logical explanation for why a reasonably intelligent fifty-seven-year-old man derives pleasure from a process that delivers all the joy of a root canal. I suppose I could find a $200-an-hour psychotherapist who could lay it all out for me in terms that would likely send me looking for a cliff to jump off of. But I digress. The real point is that I’m launching another blog. For those keeping score, I believe this is version number four or five.

My earlier attempts have been, shall we say, less than successful, not only because they weren’t particularly unique or compelling, but also because I was a less than dedicated contributor. There were a couple of lame attempts to write about politics. I soon got bored with composing angry diatribes that served no useful purpose. Most everyone who knows me is aware that I’m a very active Freemason. That was the focus of my most recent failed effort. God knows I love the fraternity and my Masonic brethren, but it’s not something that I care to write about at length. Besides, like politics, there are a lot of people doing it much better than I ever could, most notably my friends Chris Hodapp and Jay Hochberg.

What is this latest stab at a Pulitzer Prize all about? With apologies to the writers of Seinfeld, it’s a blog about nothing. I’ve concluded that all of the earlier blogs were failures for one simple reason; I generally have trouble focusing on any one thing for extended periods. Exhibit A:  A couple of years ago, I attended a dinner and had a really great glass of red wine. I vowed on the spot that I’d become a wine snob. For about a month, I spent hours poring over websites about wine. I read a couple of books. I bought a few bottles of wine. After a few weeks, my curiosity sufficiently piqued, I moved on and I now have only a passing interest in the topic. At various junctures in my life, I’ve repeated this exact same drill on subjects ranging from learning to speak French to perfecting my golf swing to playing chess with many other stops in between. The sad truth is that I have the attention span of a gnat, so it’s no surprise that I’ve struggled to maintain a blog dedicated to a specific theme for more than a few weeks, let alone write the great American novel or even, for that matter, a lousy one.

So, this time around I’ll expound upon whatever strikes my fancy at the moment- serious, not so serious, or totally frivolous. Perhaps the blog about nothing comment above was not entirely accurate because anything and everything will be fair game, from what I had for dinner to my contempt for most of modern culture to the pros and cons of the last book I read. If you’ve found your way here by accident, understand that I am, first of all, a baby boomer. If you’re not, you’ll see a lot of references to baby boom culture and people whose names you’ve probably never heard. I won’t be taking time to explain. If you don’t get it, this is one instance where Wikipedia will be your friend.

I always enter into these new ventures with the best of intentions, swearing to God, Heaven, and John Wayne that I’ll update the blog religiously. On a couple of occasions, I’ve done relatively well for a few months before doing my D.B. Cooper impression and parachuting out of the blogosphere. Unlike the elusive Cooper, I’ve made more comebacks than Richard Nixon. I’ll simply say that I hope not being tied down to a particular topic will result in my posting more often. If you’re a disturbed enough person to have stuck around through all of these different incarnations, I’m not certain whether I should say thanks or urge you to make an appointment with a therapist. Anyway, I’m off and running once again. I hope I’ll occasionally have something to say that you’ll find informative, amusing, or insightful and worth a few minutes of your time.