Much Deliberation.

After deleting about six semi-posts, I've decided that I don't want to write tonight. If you want my thoughts, or even some class discussion, go back an entry or two. Like it, hate it, indifferent to it, I don't care; just acknowledge it. Writing is useless without an audience, and if I'm not being read then what incentive is there for me to write? I can't reveal any of my real inner thoughts in here, because I've seen outhouses with more privacy than Prout. Not to mention, who really wants to deal with the day-to-day life of a teenager? Please, that's boring as hell. This isn't a journal; too many blogs are written as journals. "I got up today and made a sandwich, then I went to the mall and bought two books on knitting." Whoop dee damn doo. It's for this reason that writing is really dying, because every jackass who can punch the keys (for God's sake!) on a computer is getting a book published.

And yet, I write. I write every night in a novel that I'll probably never publish. Why? Because it's nonfictional fiction. Because the book is another "coming of age" novel with the cliche bullshit that life throws at us in there. Because I don't want to be another bargain bin author who writes like he's getting paid by the word. Because I want to end this age of useless literature and put out something meaningful into the world. That impossible though, because the theoretical haystack is bigger now. Every time some thoughtless, forced, meaningless science-fiction or fantasy novel is released to try and ride out the wave that other books of the genre have created, it makes it harder to be noticed. If fifteen books were written in one year, each one would get special notice. If fifteen thousand books were written in one year, then you've got three pages to hook a reader. Maybe five, but the point still stands.

It's a damn shame.