In Treatment...

It's been well over a year since I last posted anything on my blog. And frankly it's inexcusable. The last 15 months have given me more fodder for the written word than I've enjoyed or loathed since I was an angst-ridden college dropout. Who wants to write when there is nothing positive to say? I should have. I should have poured ink onto parchment or font onto this wonderous LCD panel like the blood, sweat and tears within me. But I did not. I failed myself; I failed my friends; I failed you fine people. I had offerings galore but kept them greedily until the fruit spoiled. And there is no excuse for my allowing that to happen.

The original notion for this blog was to give myself a venue for spewing random, witty commentary. I said that I wanted to toss out blurbs about philosophy, exorcise personal demons, entertain readers. But what I learned rather quickly was that my idea of entertaining prose is really not all that entertaining for others. I am the guy with one-liner, the occasional zinger, decent sarcasm. What I am not is a comedic writer. I have friends who are. But that is not me. My sense of humor is dark and mostly dry. I overthink practically everything. And it showed in my uninspired, bland posts that failed to deliver a giggle, provoked thought or profane gesture to my readers' day. In truth I am little more than a poet who doesn't write poetry anymore.

I recently read a quote from director Guillermo del Toro that said something along the lines of "if a writer claims to lack inspiration he's not a writer." That resonated with me. It was a strong reminder of what I wanted to be as a boy, what I said I wanted to be as a young man and of the pipe dream that has become my day to day. I have a voice. We all do. But some of us simply do not use it. And in the last year I most certainly have not used mine when the opportunities were as vast as the ocean. Shame on me.