Shall I make a confession? A minor, pointless little confession. Well, nothing serious; nothing with a great attendant guilt. It's just that... so long as I am telling everything, I might as well admit that I am not telling everything. L. points out that if I'd air my kink my hits would go through the roof. While this is probably true, I don't feel ready to risk my job. Not that my job is so prestigious, nor so well paying that exposure would be certainly fatal to it. But it is certainly prestigious enough, it certainly pays well enough, and I have certainly learned how brutal humans can be in competative efforts that I don't feel like messing about around it.
But far more than that, far deeper than this, I'm not sharing a large portion of what I think and feel. Some for the same reasons; I have some extremely radical political and social views that do not lend themselves to the furtherance of a corporate career. Or rather, which have obviously lent themselves, but the exposure of which might not.
I am writing almost every day. You will not see it all here. I am thinking about what I might write every day. Some of it may never be written. I am reading Ellison at the moment. Just finished 'I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream'. All the vectors that fly from that, my former bandsmen's album titles, half finished ideas for fiction of my own, these myriad overlapping spheres of subjective infinite experience and imagination: what is worth exploring? What can you handle? Why would you want to read it? Why should I want to write it? For free? My time to put up or shut up is coming around again I see. Publish or perish. I can't give it all away.