I started another blog, on which I intended to start my novel. I do plan to be published by 2006, and I figured I needed to get started. After 4 entries, though, I look over them and find them to be pointless. Beautiful and well-crafted, mind you, but pointless all the same. I embarked on this expedition to begin my first novel and to speak out against obsession, but mainly to start a first novel. This lack of motivation (or at least the existence of WRONG motivation) is quite apparent in my writing. It’s so very pretty, but says nothing. The complex and abstract words form together seamlessly as a veil, attempting fruitlessly to hide the emptiness of the piece. The flow is lovely, but does it say? I’ve written less than two pages, so it’s not as severe as it could be, but it’s going to need meaning at one time or another. Were I to continue, I doubt such value would float into my words and justify their existence accidentally. The crux of the situation, therefore, is as follows: I have no political or moral or sociological conviction to propagate or convey. I have morals, yes, but have I a stand to take through this book? Will there be a true impetus to push this book into existence? What exactly am I trying to say?

I look at the rubbish literature around me and wonder why I bother will such folly as merit and worth. So much trash has been published, so much! It’s terrible to think that I have to extend effort. I’m an elitist, darn it! Not only should I dream up something brilliant in my sleep, but I shouldn’t have to write it down while in consciousness. It all should happen after I pass out on my bed/couch/front desk at Spag. Yes…sleep….

I’m going to go running with Joel and Frank. I’m excited; these people will push me to run more and make me skinny. Huzzah!