Bad Writing

Reading back over last night's posting, I see only thin wisps of potential, buried deep beneath a 15-year-old's wannabe expressions of 'skill.' It was almost ugly enough to say "It's done, my attempts at writing are done, there's nothing there. Give up." But I didn't say it.

Toward the end of that short piece last night, I was growing tired and just wanted to wrap it up. There's a bit there worth salvaging for another day, but my talents have suffered badly from being exposed too long to corrosive underuse. If my damn business and job didn't get in the way, I'd write more...more real stuff, not the stream of consciousness crap that frequently finds its way to these 'pages.'

I must remember to document some ideas my wife and I shared about business possibilities. Knowledge college was one. Street coffee was another. That one launched a million ideas.

We attended a holiday party tonight at an employee's home, along with other staff and a significant other or two they brought along. It was a nice little affair. I do wish we had a small circle of friends to share evenings with. But we're usually home-bodies, all to ourselves.

I would write but, as is typical, I'm not quite ready. I need a month to myself, in a well-stocked and utterly desolate cabin in the woods, to think it all through and put real ideas to paper, leaving the scurvy crap like last night's eruption of mediocrity behind in the city.