Without a doubt, I am trying too freakin’ hard and making this way too difficult. This is the sixth post I have started since last Thursday. If I actually complete this one, it will be the first. All the others are languishing as “drafts,” waiting for that magical moment, that special ingredient, that one great word or sentence before they blossom into the lovely flowers of prose they so want to be. I’m trying not to write garbage, but I am determined to finish this, save it, edit it, and by–God publish it. It’s up to you to read it – and if you don’t, that’s fine too. At least I can take solace knowing I actually finished it.
So this is going to be the middle, which comes after the beginning and before the end, at least in most socially acceptable situations, this being one. I allow myself some crudeness in my language. I reserve the right, though, to be sensible with the crudity. (Wow, I wasn’t sure that was a word, but since the spellchecker didn’t flag it, it must be.) I learned a new word from the BBC; feck; it hovers over crudity like a dragonfly over water, but it never quite dives in to get mired up in the muck of Carlin’s seven words. It’s a good word, a useful word. I like it and I’ll use it.
Since this is another paragraph in the middle, it means I am on a roll, a rather creative roll, a roll not likely to be seen again by human eyes, in most socially acceptable situations that don’t involve crude words. Creativity is not my strong suit. I usually like clubs for trump, when I am dealt them. So rather than fool you into believing I have a creative mind, I just club words to death until they shape up like I want them. They rarely resist. I rarely succeed. We reach an agreement.
I made it this far, this being the end. I looked back up the page, actually the screen, and discovered that I failed. Yes, I succeeded in writing this. Yes, I succeeded in finishing it. Yes, I succeeded in writing rubbish. So I failed and I succeeded. They cancel each other. We reach an agreement. We’ll end it right here.