Fear and Loathing in Rockville (By Way of Konstantin Gavrilovich)

(To be read tongue firmly in cheek - lest you start to drool.)

I just got caught in my own trap.

We've been having a bit of an issue with posting on the site - mainly that we want something new up every day, and that hasn't been happening. So at our last TG meeting I suggested the position of Assignment Editors to the group - two people who would help keep us all on task and accountable for providing content individually on a weekly basis. They'd suggest ideas, monitor the output, and give those of us that need it a kick in the pants. The group agreed, names were nominated, and all was quiet in the kingdom.

Until tonight, when I just got a call from my editor asking for a post by tomorrow. Given the inanity of my current schedule that means tonight.

Fuck me, I'm my own first victim.

So here I sit, in my empty new room, struggling in front of my computer screen with one overwhelming problem staring me blindingly in the face -
I have nothing to say.

Which is of course, a lie.
I have a lot to say.
But very little I feel comfortable saying.

And suddenly something becomes very clear to me. Time has obviously been a factor in my lack of posting.
But so has fear.

Boy does that suck.

It's a deep and multi-layered fear too. Sometimes I feel I've lost faith in myself as a writer - both in terms of the quality of my prose, but also the strength of my voice (which sounds distant, forced, and formal) and my ability to make a point. Which ties into my One Kiss post - when I was so proud of this beautiful, metaphoric language (one clenched fist rises triumphantly into the air) I had come up with to describe the act of a first kiss and the possibilities contained...
and yet the conversation basically devolved into "Ew! Kissing can be icky."
Not quiiiiite where I was going.

So I have this need to write things I think are important, whatever that means, and so as much as I love reading about comics and music I feel like my writing about them now would be a waste of time. Insignificant. I should be using my writing to create beauty, or tragedy, or insight - an anecdote that Shines A Light on some part of the Human Condition.
There needs to be a point. (Imagine a really big hand gesture here.)

What an inane amount of pressure to put on a blog post, you know?
But there it is.

Stupid deadlines.

So again, here I sit, pontificating on my own neuroses - which is so self-serving it makes Emo look like Art.

But Steve's the one who called me so blame him instead.