Short and sweetened

I think that these days, the longer the blogpost, the happier I am happier pressing the “publish” button, to the extent that many shorter posts languish for months before being deleted, without you ever having read them. I wonder if this isn’t something that happens as you get older, or at any rate when you do something for a long period of time. Eventually there’s only so many different sugar coatings you can put on the same idea, before the chef himself revolts at the recipe; even if the palate might still have been invigorated and the concept digested.

It’s almost impossible for me these days to write a double-paragraph blogpost. Single paragraphs are only a distant dream. Single sentences, such as I warmed up with nearly nine years ago? Don’t make me chuckle: those are fodder for one or other Twitter account (depending on how offensive or ire-attracting they are.) In fact, right this moment I’m resisting the temptation to expand this post to three paragraphs. Perhaps I could write finis by ending this one with a semi-rhetorical question; how could I possibly be satisfied writing shorter, pithier, more frequent blogposts?

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This entry was posted in age, experience, inspiration, media, meta, occupation, person, publishing, vanity, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Short and sweetened

  1. looby says:

    My blog is littered with hundreds of commented out scraps “which might come in handy later.” It’s the virtual equivalent of a very disordered office. The posts I’m happiest with are written straight through, from beginning to end fairly quickly. Yes, they need polishing up afterwards but the best ones are where you can get the words down with that elusive feeling of simply acting as a physical conduit for thought. They’re also the most enjoyable ones to write; and if I ever stop enjoying it, then the blog will be put to bed pronto.

  2. smallbeds says:

    That’s the problem, I think. My disordered office isn’t just my computer, because in a lot of ways, I write best in ink on paper; but the labour of transcribing often takes the energy out of what I once wrote. And when instead I try to write everything from the first draft onwards on the computer, I often find that that’s fraught with its own distractions, and can amplify my own tendency towards the baroque.

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