So there's this old Jack Benny bit, where he's accosted on the street:
“Your money or your life!”
Benny: (after a beat)
“I’m thinking, I’m thinking!”
That’s me. Not because I’m cheap (though I am, a bit). It’s because I’m an over-thinker. A hyper-analyzer. A hand-wringer.
This is harldy news to anyone who's tuned into this space over the last year. It's painfully obvious to even a wayward visitor or would-be drinking-song-singer who might have popped by during the the marathon cricket concert that comprised the last three months: I'm more thinker than doer.
It's taken me a while to figure that out, but there it is. I'd rather read than write. What's worse, I'd rather read pop-culture critiques that write them. I mean, I love the idea of writing them; I have the ideas and the inclination. Somehow, though I just can't seem to pull the trigger. Consequently, I tend to consume far more than I produce when it comes to anything creative. Not atypical for the average joe, but shameful for someone whose ostensible job title is "creative." And now that every other average joe has a blog--and blogs more reliably that I--it's all the more shameful.
I blame Ixtab. And Dennis. And TLRHB. Ed shares some of the responsibility. Oh, and fish--that miracle of evolution who eats and blogs and makes little fish--he's crazy culpable. In fact, my entire blog roll should now be regarded as a kind of rogues' gallery. All those people, those witty, prolific, insightful blog-o-maniacs who started out as glorious inspiration are, I now realize, the cause of my ignominious cranial constipation. They're just too good; they set a standard I simply can't reach.
Now, the last three months have been something of an aberration, even for me, in part because I'm (wait for it) thinking seriously about a fairly major course change. (More on that later. Maybe.)
So, in an effort to jump-start (maybe defibrilate is a more apt metaphor--CLEAR!) this electronic beached whale, I'm going to try something a little bold and daring: Seven consecutive days of blog entries. I figure if I can just get some forward momentum built up, I can overcome the fear or the need to edit on the fly or whatever it is and just blog.
I'm just going to warn you now: It's not going to be pretty. My guess is that, over the next week, things around here resemble something between a car wreck and the inside of a sausage factory. If nothing else, it should be entertaining. I think.