It's hard to write a good beginning, especially when the one doing the writing doesn't really have anything of value to say. It doesn't seem to stop some people, though. They keep writing and writing. And me? I keep reading and reading....hoping, just hoping that something important will be said; something inspiring or challenging or intellectually stimulating. Alas, there's nothing. Absolutely nothing. The supposed charmed life one is attempting to read about is both full and vacuously empty at the same time.
Some writings I devour, being fed morsel after tasty morsel, a carefully selected turn of phrase here and there like the the meal I occasionally dream about from Brennan's -- turtle soup spiked with sherry, pecan crusted trout, maque choux, and green beans, finished with a handful of pralines stuffed in my pocket on the way out the door as, by then, I'm usually too full to eat another bite. The authors who offer a full course meal like that -- those are the authors I want to read.
Other writings taste like a mouthful of dry plaster, not that I'm speaking from experience or anything. I'm just imagining. Because try as I might, there are just some writings that I can't even chew, much less swallow. Self centered self righteous whiny writers are the worst sort -- and they are everywhere these days. In fact, the very nature of keeping a blog, regardless of content, lends itself to self introspection with a glass of whine. And though this is designed to be a blog about the artistic process with regards to my life, and a seemingly innocuous way to promote myself, that's just it. I am promoting myself. Which hopefully, if anyone is still reading by this point, doesn't ALWAYS taste like a mouthful of plaster, though I really don't know what that tastes like. Honest.