Writers Write, Even When They Don’t Realize It
The only thing I was fit for was to be a writer, and this notion rested solely on my suspicion that I would never be fit for real work, and that writing didn’t require any.
–Russell Baker
That Baker quote has been on my About Page forever, but I only just recently realized its irony as this blog has once again gone silent for another unreasonably long period as my time and attention have been pulled elsewhere. I’ve had several good ideas and intentions for posts since the last time I blogged here in mid-April, but they’ve all either ended up over at Digital Book World, or I simply never got around to writing them because, well, writing requires “real work” and Battle for Wesnoth is a better way to unwind at 11pm than attempting to put together a coherent post.
Reading can be “real work” sometimes, too, so I’ve found myself getting back into magazines, comic books and anthologies for their short bursts of escape, unable to commit to a full-length novel. As a result, Bolano’s 2666 mocks me from the bottom of my to-read pile whenever I pick up the latest issue of Monocle, the latest volume of Fables, or the Forgotten Realms anthology Realms of the Dead, from the top of the pile.
Even work you enjoy takes time, and as much as I’d love to be one of those writers who can set aside a specific amount of time each day for writing, I have too many other things on my plate, including… writing.
