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.