I’ve succumbed to the same phenomena that’s been realized in every other blog I’ve ever partaken in: I’m addicted to writing on it. (Which is kinda the point of a blog, I guess.) I imagine many of you have experienced the same sensation before. At 18, and 19 and 20, I had a little Xanga blog that started as a small hobby to pass the time, and turned into something that consumed me. It consumed me so much that the process of writing transformed from a catharsis — romanticizing mundane aspects of everyday life — to an addiction I was dependent on. If I didn’t write, it felt like there was a gaping void in my day.
The worst part was nearly everything I wrote I inevitably hated upon rereading it, though that’s really to say I have the capacity to disdain just about everything I do if it becomes consistent.
Familiarity breeds contempt; that sort of thing.
When writing about sports, it offered a reprieve from the constant, unchanging cycle of most things I write, because the context was always different. The context forced the articles to change. I mean, sure, my style was more gonzo-type journalism — that’s what differentiated me from most other baseball bloggers — but I never did it just for the effect; it’s what came naturally. I also find it easier to relate to. What can I say? I apparently have a hard time posting shit unless I have creative license to use the word “I” as much as humanly fucking possible.
As far as writing being an addiction is concerned, it’ll fade. Right now it’s still fresh; the withdrawal stage hasn’t yet begun, because I haven’t let it. Slowly these posts will slip from every day to every other day, to maybe once or twice a week, until the day where I look back at this blog and hate everything I’ve written on it, begrudge the fact that I actually wasted my time writing shit that means absolutely nothing, bemoan my word choices and style, et. all. Then I’ll probably delete it so it will seem like it never existed in the first place, and in no time it’ll evaporate from my memory.
Then in a couple years I’ll wish I hadn’t deleted it, start a new blog, and repeat the process all over again. It’s happened several times before, and if I know anything for a fact, it’s that I will never change. I’m not sure if that’s a sad or beautiful thing, or both, or neither, but I know it’s true. And if I’m writing to myself, I have no reason to lie.
For the time being, writing is still fun. I still enjoy the process of spewing thoughts onto an otherwise blank slate. It’s my creation, and eventually it will make me sick. But I’ll come back. I always come back.