The original purpose of this blog was to regale readers with my humorous tales as I moved from the house I grew up in on Long Island to my first apartment, at the ripe old age of 26, into Queens with two friends who I’ve basically known since grade school.
It’s now mid-November and I’ve been living there for over a month and, until today, all I had was a bunch of rough drafts. There’s one where I gripe about the Mets, but that was only relevant for a few days and I didn’t want to publish it until I felt it was up to my usual writing standards. A few other posts fell victim to this same idiotic mode of self-defeat, enhanced by procrastination, so now there they set in my drafts file, unpublished.
Last year I interned at a bridal magazine and obtained my first “real” clips (since employment postings love to tell me in their condescending tone how my bi-weekly opinions column from college simply doesn’t count) as a writer and this year they were nice enough to let me write for them again.
Let me digress for a moment and say that I am a terrible procrastinator. It does not matter if I have two weeks or two months to do an assignment, I will still wait until 2 days before it’s due to start it. In my defense, I always get my work done, it’s just that I work best under pressure and for some odd reason, if it’s not there naturally, I feel the need to self-inflict pressure to get the result that I want.
So as I sat procrastinating, watching every TV show I’ve missed over the past few weeks and combing Facebook for any new picture of anyone I’ve ever known, my thoughts wandered to this blog and I realized: It’s a blog… why the heck am I procrastinating?!
Writing is my passion, but like all passions, I don’t need to attack it with the severity of a Masters thesis. Passion projects should be fun and if you love it, then somehow it will, in some way, be good. Even if it’s only to me.
So here’s my blog. Some days I may just complain about traffic on the LIE or the commute to work or the guys I meet and then try to shake like a tick every weekend. It’s not Hemingway, but, unfortunately, few things are and this isn’t meant to be.
Thanks for reading…