Is it my imagination or are a lot of comments on folks’ blogs starting to look like bots/AI wrote them?
I was scrolling through a few comments on other sites and I’ve noticed that more of them are increasingly sound “off”. Commentors with this flavor of comments don’t dare add value to the conversations; they seem mostly to confirm and affirm. And the truly “weird” ones seem to miss the main topic of discussion entirely, often glomming onto something said in passing.
Maybe I’m just paranoid? Or a grump? Maybe I need more cigarettes.
Odd day today: I found out an old bandmate’s spouse was found unresponsive this morning in bed. Cause of death, TBD. He just woke up next to her and she was no longer there. She was in her early 50s with no real history of chronic illness that I am aware of. He certainly seemed surprised by the news.
Social network “suicide” is a strange kind of experience when you are doing it, not as a reactionary thing, but as a fully thought-out process with a staged approach.
Sometimes dreams are just dreams. I get it — if all of our dreams were always meaningful, insightful and future-seeing, we’d put all of the oneiromancers out there out of business. Or give them panic attacks when we call them in to join us in the dreaming to help interpret and…
Whatever.
But there are dreams and the are Dreams. The proper noun versions demand you pay attention to their contents, which the other ones might linger on the fringes of memory until the morning fog burns off (if your lucky). And that’s only if they are particularly good or bad.
Happy Thanksgiving, if you’re the kind of folks who celebrate such things. My mother didn’t give an option to decline the festivities and, having grown up in an environment where Catholic Guilt Syndrome was (and is still) employed as the weapon of choice, I’ll be heading out in a bit to do family things.
But, as Arlo Guthrie sang, “Alice — remember Alice?”… [listening to Alice’s Restaurant Massacree on Thanksgiving is about the only personal tradition worth keeping in my mind, but—]… let’s get on with my weird, cheap thoughts for the day. But first:
In my shower moments, maybe in those moments leading up to the shower as well, I was thinking (once again) about the nature of crushes.
That’s where I am at the moment with writing: fiction or poetry or what have you. It’s been at a bit of a drip feed for a couple of months now, so I am going to do what I always do when this occurs: continue to write with less poetry and fiction in the mix, let my creative energies either rest or try new things to “break it up”, and let that well recharge.
It’s not that I don’t have ideas. Rather, it is that they translate in a garbled manner or refuse to come out of hiding. I’ve learned that the best thing to do when that happens is to not force it. When I have forced creative writing, then comes the blocking and I don’t want to do that. It’s kind of like an insomniac trying to force themselves to sleep; the more one thinks about the lack of sleep, the less likely they are going to sleep.
So, I don’t sweat it, keep in the habit of writing (just not poetry or fiction), and consider other outlets for that kind of energy while the creative writing well fills back up.
How about you? Does your “well run dry”? If/when it does happen, how do you approach the matter? Do you power through? Or do you give yourself a break? Or does the dry spot break you?
Sound off below. Please focus your comments on your own experiences rather than commenting on my current state — I’m good, and I’m more interested in how you handle yourself than getting advice on how I should handle me.
…something had happened to him in his late twenties that seemed to manoeuvre him away from other people, not just his friends, but from the normal course of human affairs. He’d begin to catch people exchanging glances whenever he spoke up in group situations; or they would be half smiling when he entered the offices and warehouses he worked in, but he never stayed for very long before he moved on to something else equally unsatisfactory. Invitations to join others lessened, then ceased before he was thirty-two. Only damaged and insecure women seemed to find comfort in his company, though they had little interest in him besides his being a confirming presence. By thirty-four he was lonely. Lonely. Genuinely.
…[U]nless he was talking to Hutch alone, his every attempt to start a conversation in the group had been treated like an ill-thought-out statement, or just ignored. No one even tried to pick up the threads he started. Most often there would be a silence and then the other three would fall back into whatever natural camaraderie they had rediscovered.
Why is it that some of us are not allowed to be “not okay” in some manner or another? Why is it that we always seem to be the ones who have to be available?
And when we happen to be less than rosey, why do so many people act like it is less important than their own trials and tribulations?
Yeah. I know. There is no real answer to that question. Therefore, comments are closed. Food for thought is all, as meager a fare as that might be…
Except for romance novels (where it is, after all, the focus and intent), I feel sex scenes in fiction almost never add to the story and almost always pulls you out of the story as a reader.
