The usual reason given as to why I’m inactive on this blog is that I have little to say. But this is untrue. In fact, it doesn’t makes sense for anyone to say, unless they are consciously impaired; maybe in a deep sleep, comatose, anaesthetised, or indeed, dead. Then, a person might truthfully be lacking in thought. But given that I’m not permanently residing in any of these states – I frequently display signs of mental activity, albeit ever so slightly –  I have no choice but to admit, my literary inaction (how grand that sounds) is due to choice. My choice. I consciously choose not to write. But why?

I fear being thought of as boring, a fear, as they go, second only to the unthinkable, the irrational, but nevertheless fearful concern that there is an afterlife, and it is to be sentenced to an eternity of endlessly playing Monopoly, suffering with toothache, and listening to the caterwauling of Chris de burgh and his, “Woman in red”! Shudder! Anyway, getting back on course… I know many amongst you will claim that, like beauty, what’s deemed boring lies in the eye of the beholder, and I’ve no doubt this is true, but here I’m talking about my personal idea of ennui, of prose to avoid, like: posts listing “my day”, “my shopping list”, “photos of my breakfast”, “my plight in general”, “a particular aspect of my plight”, “a history of my plights”, “ my top 100 all-time worst plights”… ad fucking nauseam. And it’s this, being considered a member of such a group, that worries me most, especially as the past 3 years have been plight-intensive relative to other years. I’m talking of several minor depressions, death, job redundancy, major illness complete with major surgery, and the relegation of Aston Villa FC to the Championship division! So you can see just how plightful a 3 year period can be. So, although my life contained a plethora of events to plunder (in the literary sense) I was afraid of being considered a boring plight-monger, so I kept much to myself. However…

It has to be said too (and this is no secret) I’m lazy also. A procrastinator extraordinaire. And did I ever mention impatient? I know I did. This is why my written efforts, on those rare occasions they appear, alway fizzle out (precisely as this is doing), as hastily I find myself going at it like a stoat, so to speak, speeding towards the climax!

So there you have it… well, almost…

I don’t think I’ve introduced you to my self-loathing, have I? What’s that? Another time? Suit yourself.

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