I could post in my blog...

I could watch more TV.
I could make lunch.
I could play Borderlands. Again.
I could play Final Fantasy... even though I'm stuck.
I could post in my blog...
I could play Nintendogs.
I could post in my blog...
I could read Jack London! Again.
I could post in my blog.
I should post in my blog.
I'm going to post in my blog.
Now.
Right now.
I could play Nintendogs?
Post!
In!
Blog!
Fine.

I know exactly why I avoid doing this so much. To be a writer requires constant practice. It is not a skill like breathing, bicycling or cracking all your knuckles in one go that is learned, perfected, and never thought about again. If you slack off for a month, even a week or a couple of days, you will be coming back to the iron cold with none of the fire of life, no flexibility. What results is often disaster. Total garbage. I hate that. I hate not being able to spew beautiful prose instantly, on command, like some kind of machine built for this. Instead I fumble in everything I write. Sure, I am capable of fantastic verbiage and am prone, on occasion, to even write a few, precious lines of poetry. But this is rare, like picking out the shark's tooth from among the innumerable billions of other blackish triangly-shaped thingies that pepper the shelly beaches of St. Augustine.

I am certain that "blackish, triangly-shaped thingies" is exactly how every shark's tooth hunter thinks of those false, deceitful particles.

So I put it off. I tip-toe around it thinking: "It's too soon. I've got nothing new to say. I'll wait until something worth writing about has taken place." Something worth writing about is taking place every single moment of every single day that a writer is alive. But I lie to myself anyway.

It is hard to write for an audience primed to let fly with criticism. I think it is harder still to write for a silent audience that comes and goes with the strength of my talent like the tide with the waxing and waning of the moon. Hardest of all is writing for an army of Yes-Men and, while it serves to stroke my ego, is probably my least favorite kind of audience. And then of course there is my family. If anyone is able to tell me my writing is trash it is my family. They hold no illusions when it comes to my talent. It makes them honest, which I both love and hate.

The cat still has fleas. I took her to the vet and they applied some kind of stuff that was supposed to kill the damn things and still they live, hitching rides on our beloved Cricket into the confines of my bedsheets where they pester me all night with their insatiable appetites. I will kill them all!