It is a well worn and honest truth that if I don’t attend to the blog in the morning, I hesitate until the very last possible moment of execution. This is true, it seems, of all things outside of love and video games. It can therefore be asserted that these two things come natural or at the very least, easy. I have again waited to the last chime of the bell to see this blog to its fruition. I have, in that, failed to conjure anything resembling a clear cut direction or thought. I do have ten minutes to fill nevertheless, so here I remain.
I find myself thinking about something Stephen King said about writing. He posited that one must pursue writing daily. It doesn’t matter if the page is filled with scribbles of the worst kind. That determinism; that habit or even tradition will lead writers to produce. Practice makes perfect, in simpler terms. I Have issues with that–not with the statement but with the execution of the directive. I have failed again and again to come to the words for longer than the perfunctory ten minutes I share here with you (dear reader). It does lead to the presumption that writing is not valued. The truth is a far simpler lady: Writing does not provide the lovely pulse of dopamine these other endeavors (love, games) bring to the forefront. It does provide a well deserved hit, but the earning of that moment takes time.
Alas, I do not write solely for dopamine. Games are the only mistress of that regard. Like love itself (by which I mean the love of the Lady Talis and, two a different extent the responsibility to the six we call our own). I write because it is who I am. It is a calling no lesser than that of the cloth in my eyes. Yet I find myself far far far less reverent. It is a calling I miss when not in practice, which begs the question of why I am not so reverent. Why do I not give the proper hours?
It will be a wonderful day when I uncover that answer.
Some Thoughts:
- Some philosophers may have a scientific ally in their position that consciousness is an illusion.