Radio Silence

It may or may not be obvious there’s been a bit of radio silence recently. I find myself… stymied, and it has muted my muse. Part of it comes from looking around and being humbled by the amazing quality work given to the internet by so many. The interweb is a landscape of both common clay and veins of riches. I feel humbled by the task of contributing anything of worth.

I’m also stymied by the recognition that a large part of my repetoire—explaining things—is moot. Sites such as Wikipedia have amazing catalogs of information including great explanations (you can usually expect great explanations on Wikipedia). Special focus sites such as TV Tropes offer high-resolution catalogs of specific areas of knowledge. Much of my writing—going back decades—involves explaining things: BAT files, software applications, number bases, C programming. (I was one of those geeky guys who was drawing fortress plans and schematic diagrams since before high school. Diagrams and tech docs are an old friend.)

But it’s done so well at those major sites that I’m not sure I can add much. If nothing else, those sites have high visibility; I’m over here in left field. If I think I can write a better explanation than found at Wikipedia, then I should join and submit my work there. What I can do here, then, is explain things that are (a) somehow not Wiki-appropriate and (b) worth reading anyway.  Seems like a tough assignment. It suggests the content must be somehow optional. maybe specious, or even frivolous.

So I’ve been stymied; searching for a new approach.

And to tell the truth, I kinda haven’t been in the mood lately. The joy quotient has been unusually low on the real-time side: no joy in Mudville LLC, no Yin to my Yang, no fun in the sun. The Perceptual Annual Odometer clicked recently; no doubt a contributing factor. (I know it’s a little opaque. The blog is supposed to be about ideas, not my life. Bear with me for some murky lamenting.)

The outside stories, and the inside dreams, are still and always escape and solace. But the inside stories, the necessary new ones, have been elusive. And in being necessary they strengthen the stymie; they become duty. When play grows to duty it can be a lifetime career, hobby, obsession or burden. In all cases, it requires commitment.

There’s an old joke about the guy hitting his head with a hammer. When asked why he was doing such a painful thing, his reply was that it felt so good when he stopped. When I stopped writing… it felt good. Which suggests the writing somehow didn’t.

So let’s try this again.

When I damn well feel like it.

And have something to say.

See ya then.

About Wyrd Smythe

The canonical fool on the hill watching the sunset and the rotation of the planet and thinking what he imagines are large thoughts. View all posts by Wyrd Smythe

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