I admit that writing a blog is extremely difficult. It isn’t the writing part; it is the what-to-post part. A blog should be cohesive to its primary theme. Like a story, extraneous parts rest on the cutting room floor.
Cutting those posts or sections is a labor of tough love for the better of the whole. (It appears that I am full of clichés today.) For me, that is every one of the last seven posts I have written in my notebook. They exist. But are they worthy?
They languish for a time in a lonely notebook with the only friends being other likely candidates. They wait and wonder. They question their existence.
As a writer, process is everything to me. I know that not everything I produce will be good. I need the bad in order for the good to shine. I must write badly in order to write well.
Sometimes those notebooks call out to me. Old ones full of dust and filled pages. A piece of paper with meaningful marks on it is a thing of beauty, a notebook even more so. Crack them open and feel the spirit of the pages, the texture, the smell.
Communication is about expressing ideas. It can be clumsy or eloquent. Either way, the core idea is the most important aspect. Some ideas are crusty and stale, but others hold onto a brilliance that outshines the yellowed pages.
The end of something completes its story. But stories have no end. They are like coins. Spend them and they are gone, left for someone else to possess. But unlike a coin, which leaves you for good and is quickly forgotten, a story sticks with you, changes you, absorbs you.
This is not the end. It is never the end. Dust off those old scripts, those derelict posts, those musty poems, those sentimental journal entries, those unsent letters. Relive them and love them.