Tempus Fugit

Contrary to what you believe, this blog has readers. One in Champaign, one in St. Louis, and (according to Google Analytics) one in Omaha. So you, Omaha reader, just know: you are not alone! (Also: I'm stalking you! This is the chief purpose fulfilled by modern technology.)

You readers demand high quality content, which (of course) I always deliver. The problem, though, is the eternity between deliveries. Sixteen days is way too long to make my bros wait, but alas, 200-page cross-cultural journalism projects intervene sometimes.

This place serves no purpose. None of its content matters. It makes no immediate impact. Yet in this void of uselessness a purpose does appear. 

The more I read, the more I realize I can't write worth jack shit. Though writers may appear fully formed upon their emergence into public consciousness, they weren't born that way. They first have to read and write and read and write and maybe type out every word of The Great Gatsby and probably do some actual work for actual money on the side and come home every night and read and write some more. 

I try to remember this whenever I promise to blog more frequently but always end up forgetting. Doing that econ homework or researching for that project matters much more in the now than any silly post here. But you only learn how to write more good through a helluva lotta practice. That time you spend staying useless is what makes you the most useful writer you can be. And if you wanna make a hobby and, God forbid, a career out of filling blank computer screens with words, you sure as fuck better practice.

I don't. I need to. I will.

See y'all sooner than two weeks from now. (Maybe).