Dreams of Literary Grandeur was not my first attempt at a blog. My last year in Japan, I started posting to a MySpace blog (hard to believe that MySpace was cool as little as two years ago). I still have that account, though I’m thinking of getting rid of it, since most of my friends are now on Facebook, and I have no need for the blog feature. So, I thought, in the interest of laziness (since these posts are already written) and curiosity, I’d start reprinting some of those posts here, for your enjoyment. The only things I’ve changed are underlined titles to italics, and adding spaces between paragraphs, in order to make the entries easier to read.
Here then, is the first post from Diary of a Literary Rebel, dated Monday, March 24, 2008.
Current mood: bored
Today is a grey, sometimes rainy day. I have many things I should be doing, but I have little motivation to do them. Anyway, I needed a break from the dreariness, so I decided to start this blog, with a tip of the hat to Gogol for the title.
I doubt you’ll find anything “rebellious” in this or any other blog that I write, but you will find out what I’m thinking about at a particular moment in time, which may be shocking. This won’t be a diary; I have one of those already, and it’s made of paper. I hope, instead, that this blog will be a conglomeration of my thought processes and philosophical leanings. I may try writing some stories on here, though I prefer using pencil and paper. Poetry is impossible to write on a computer, for me, but if it’s written in my head first, then perhaps it would be possible to transfer it to here. But, as I have outlets for all of my fictional pursuits, I’d much rather that this blog deal with the thinking aspects out of which stories spring, rather than being stories themselves. Still, I will not impose any limits at the outset; let this blog be what it will be.
So far, though, I’ve noticed that I’ve said very little while writing quite a bit. Well, thought patterns are circuitous and often full of crap; otherwise, everyone would be able to read Faulkner and Joyce. Not that I’m comparing myself to them. After all, I’d like to be read by most people in my lifetime. Sometimes, the public must be ignored for the good of the story, but one mistake that many twentieth-century writers made was ignoring their readers altogether. And one mistake that many twentieth-century readers made was ignoring great authors because they were “difficult” to read. I’m not saying to go out and buy Finnegan’s Wake (unless it’s cheaper to buy than a stool), but why not try to read Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man? Now that it’s the twenty-first century, I hope readers and authors will learn from their mistakes of the past century, though I doubt it.
I seem to be making that mistake right now, in fact, having ignored the fact that I have an audience. I’m sure that when I have some free time that I don’t feel needs to be filled up with other fun activities, I will write a much better blog. Then again, by dumping all of my brain garbage into this entry, it may clear the way for some really wonderful writing to occur back in my room, though it doesn’t do you, the reader, any good. I’ll try harder next time. Till then.