Tuesday, 17 April 2007

Extremely Dull Post #1

I've just been looking at my most recent entries here and have noticed a change in subject matter from when I first starting posting. My early posts generally involved me choosing a subject and then making snidey comments about said subject. I was hoping to display an incisive wit and, in my terribly biased opinion, there are some bits that I wouldn't be in any great hurry to disown, some bits that maybe raise a chuckle, but absolutely nothing that might have the ghost of HL Mencken worrying about his legacy. I think Jerry Seinfeld has a lot to answer for here. I've spent a lot of time watching a show based upon little other than the ridicule of absolutely everything. But lately my posts don't reflect this and I've found that I'm writing more about events in my own life than I'd originally intended.

So what happened?

I might be that I've realised that whatever I write has probably been written about before more attractively than I can manage. In the same way that I can't see the point of, for example, the existence of any band that sounds like Oasis (because Oasis have done the Oasis sound better than any other band can ever do. Are you listening The View, The Twang etc?) then I can't see any reason to try to make points that other people may have made. Seriously, how can I ever expect to write anything in a wry observational style that hasn't already been done? There can be few phenomena that have yet to be dissected in print so why bother trying to find any?

The answer to this apparently rhetorical question involves the notion of me finding my own voice. I have a unique perspective on life, as everyone does, and one of the reasons I started this blog was to try to work out exactly what that perspective involves. I think I should persevere. So that's settled then. None of this, however, explains why I've been willing to write about myself than I originally thought I would.

I'm going to stop typing here because I've just read through what is already down and found it to be among the most tedious claptrap I've ever had the misfortune to lay my eyes upon. There are poems about how unfair life is written by lovesick teenagers that are less self-absorbed than this rubbish. I'll continue in a few days.

No comments: