I’ve always thought I’d be some sort of writer. Not a good writer, a passable one. A passable writer won’t be widely read, they won’t be overly interesting, nay, they won’t even be talked about. A passable writer will spell things wrong, their grammar might be poor, they might even over-use commas, but just enough people will read their words to keep them in business, whatever that is.
If you’re going to do something, I guess there’s less to aspire to than a passable writer. I could be a blogger! Oh wait.
So if I were a passable writer, I’d write. Instead I’m even less than that, I’m a guy who could be a passable writer who also doesn’t write. That’s the recipe for a good joke I suppose.
Hold on a second, I said mean things about bloggers a paragraph ago. I don’t believe there are bloggers any more than I believe there are joggers. You either write or you run, it doesn’t matter what speed or what your subject, just do it. That’s what Nike said so who can argue?
Okay back to the whole self loathing thing. If I were a passable writer, I’d be ecstatic right now. I almost put an expletive in that sentence but something told me you didn’t want to read that. Or maybe you did so go back and add whatever spice you like, I’ll wait.
Long story short, I don’t write, you don’t read me, and I didn’t curse in this bit of passable writing. I’m giving me a gold star.
That was passable right?