February 2, 2012: A Whiney Preamble

Crabby old queen.

            Today is the last day of my forties. And, starting tomorrow, I’m going to celebrate my fiftieth year by doing something I swore I’d never do: Write for free.

In fact, I’m going to do it every day. For a whole year.

The word “blog” makes me want to hork up my lunch. I’ve made my living as a writer for the past quarter-century, in good part because I have no other talent. No one seemed interested, 25 years ago, in paying me to sit around complaining about how fucked up I think everything is. And so I convinced someone that I knew how to make sentences, and they gave me a job, and now, exactly half a lifetime later, I (and thousands of other writers like me) find that thing I like to call “my career” being sidelined.

Why? Because everyone is suddenly writing. For free!

I hate blogs.

I also hate writing. Always have. And I don’t entirely trust people who want to do it “for fun.” Writing isn’t fun—it’s like giving birth to a box of broken dishes. Trust me; I’ve done it every day since before there was Britney Spears. I’d rather choke to death on my own vomit than have to write another word for money.

So why do it for free, then? I suppose I’m hoping that the tedium of documenting my fiftieth year will lead to some kind of peculiar revelation that will make me less resentful of blogs and bloggers and the state of journalism, which for many years was very good to me. Or maybe it’ll cause my mind, at last, to snap. Either way, here I am: A pissy old queen with a commitment. I promise rants and profanity and more-than-occasional references to dishware and old movies. For anything else, I fear, you’ll have to find another blogger.

Thing I Hate Today: Blogging.


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