the mess, the shame

I have this issue. Now, my colleague here is not a fan of meta-navel-gazing-self-absorbed wank about writing and process and fuck knows what else. Fair enough, I suppose. Certainly my milling things over in my head for weeks and months and days on end as opposed to, you know, hammering something out and letting it be good enough. It’s a blog, not Das Capital.(1)

(1) You know that bit of Marx where he described primitive communism as the capacity to live life as one wishes, fishing in the morning, writing of an afternoon? If that were really true, I would have quite genuinely starved to death by now. The other day I had to bribe myself to go down the hall for something with the promise of ice cream at the other end. I would try to fish for ten minutes and then collapse weakly on the riverbank and probably allow myself to get rained on. What I mean to say is that I am phenomenally lazy and yet some kind of OCD-perfectionist. This means that Bernard Black would feel right at home in my beyond-messy house.


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