Jeff—Saturday
It’s
midnight on Thursday, which means 24 hours until my Saturday blog goes
live. Only trouble is, I haven’t written
it yet and tomorrow’s a 6AM wakeup call and departure for Charleston, South
Carolina, followed by a 24/7 schedule, long in the planning by
she-who-must-be-obeyed.
Yep, I
blew it. I should have written my post by now, but this week too many things
just got in the way…like hypnotic CNN v. FOX coverage of our nation spewing out
plot lines for Dystopian Psychotic Romance Thrillers at a Lucy-in-the-candy-factory
pace.
So, here I
am, having never missed a blog post in seven years—yes, last week was my
seventh anniversary among this magnificent crew—facing a decision: To blog, or not to blog that is the question.
And as if
the fates were watching, a thought crossed my mind…of a post I’d published five
years ago—almost to the day. I’d written
it as a lark about a year before then, never thinking I’d “publish” it.
It’s a
parody of Hamlet’s self-questioning To
be, or not to be soliloquy, and I thought
it deserving of a second run—certainly under my current circumstances. And, so, with that shoddy proffered excuse of
an introduction, please come join along with the Bard's suffering hero as we struggle together amid my tortured parody.
 |
| Laurence Olivier and Friend |
JEFFREY: To blog, or not to blog--that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to
suffer
In despair at most blogs’ outrageous
fortune
Or to take pens against our shared
troubles
And by exposing end them. To fly, to
leap--
To soar—or do we creep away to end
The headache, and the thousand
natural blocks
That publish is heir to. 'Tis a
consternation
Devoutly to be wished on
others. Weep--
Perchance even scream: But at the very
nub
Of a possible death to the dream of
some
Is why we suffer at this mortal toil.
Let us pause. There's the respect
That is the balm to a long writing
life.
For who would bear the ups and downs
of time,
Th' reviewer's wrong and downright
contumely,
The pangs of edited work, the pub
delay,
The insolence of the press, and its
spurns
Showing patient merit worthy of a
saint,
When he or she might quiet exit take
To make a living? Who would deadlines bear,
To grunt and sweat a solitary life,
But that the dread of giving no more
breadth
To all those undiscovered thoughts
that churn
Our traveling minds, and puzzle our
will,
Would make us far more ill by half
Than denying readers what they know
not of?
Dedication makes writers of us all,
And a simpler life of remuneration
Is sacrificed to one of words and
thought.
Any enterprise giving pitch and
moment
To our words, even if currently awry,
We can’t lose in the name of no
action.
So now fair Colleagues, bring on
opinions
That our blog be long remembered.
—Jeff
