Only Ninety-Four Days

(I’m a complete and utter failure)

So WordPress, after being slagged off in yesterday’s post by the epitome of wrath that is me writing at one in the morning, have now come back and made a nice little scrolly slideshow about all the things I’ve done on this site this year, complete with upload-based fireworks, sexy maps, and the mind-blowing titbit that I’ve had enough viewers on this blog this last year to fill up the Sydney Opera House. Three times. I’m sorry, what?

And all this makes me feel bad for having a go at WordPress like I did yesterday, a bit like having a one-sided fight with a long-term partner, only to realise a few days later that they had actually baked you a cake that day, which was why they weren’t answering your calls because they were at home and didn’t want to get flour and icing sugar on the landline you both use, and why they barred you from entering the kitchen for a whole day, so you had to get a KFC for tea and eat it by yourself on your bed and feel depressed and isolated, but really they did care all along and were just building up to a greater act of caring-ness, that you presumptuously assumed was a total absence of affection, making you a bit of a bastard really.

Or is that just me?

Either way, there was one stat that stuck out at me as being particularly discouraging, that my longest streak was a mere 94 days of posts, from January 1st to April 3rd; excuse me, but out of the 365 days in this year, I’ve been able two write continuously for less than a third of that? What kind of pussy-ass water jutsu blog am I operating here? I’m fully aware of my limitations as a writer – I can’t write dialogue for shit, I struggle to detail scenes that I myself find disturbing so often skip over the events with the most heartstring-yanking potential in my stories, I’m not very good at alternating between the two levels of narration I like to use, a close-up, play-by-play style focusing on individual characters versus a broader, more society-defining omniscient viewpoint, and I really have difficulty creating characters who aren’t basically gay, female, or black versions of me, tracksuit trousers and all – but I like to think that if I can do one thing rather well it’s write regularly. But the numbers don’t lie, and I would appear to suck at the one thing this blog explicitly sets out to do – be updated daily – and the one aspect of my writing I feel confident in saying ‘I’m okay at that.’

Returning to the cake analogy from earlier, this is like a second twist in which the cake turns out to be a combination of mud, greek yoghurt and the decomposing remains of Jimmy Saville’s twisted, grinning face, so you go back to hating your partner (and perhaps fearing for their sanity somewhat). But I can’t do the same thing; I can’t sit here and blame WordPress for simply presenting me with this information, the fault lies with me for not making good on my intention to write more often. I’ve often said on this blog, and it might even be on the About Me page to this day, that I’ll write this blog on a daily basis, real-life allowing, but I’m realising that that qualifier might be the origin of this year’s pussy-assed-ness; over the last five days, I’ve written a short story, and a blog post, while balancing making a run to the AFC Championship game on Madden, and ploughing 36 hours into Civilisation V, and spending an afternoon with family, going on walks, getting a haircut, and celebrating Christmas frakking Day in the process! I know that when I get back to uni, I’ll have more things to do, and more engaging, exhausting things because they’ll probably involve more people and general assemblies and seminars and God knows what else, but if I can manage these few days, I don’t see why I can’t manage daily blogging for much longer than 94 days.

I think I’ll use the rest of my Twelve Stories Of Christmas plan to test this theory; in my mind, for the convenient purposes of this system, a day spent writing 5,000 words, going for a walk, reading Empire State and playing Civilisation should be about equivalent in time spent to a day at uni, involving three hours of lectures, reading some Wordsworth, going to handball training (or whatever;s on that night) and a few hours of unspecified youthful hanging-outery. So if I can finish these next seven stories, I should be able to continue plugging up your Facebook feed with my bullshit until approximately the end of time.

Isn’t that wonderful for all parties involved?

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