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Sunday, September 29, 2002
Oh dear, oh dear. Here I am in the midst of a dry spell and Meryl Yourish links to me with words of praise that bring a blush to my weathered cheek. I really must pick up around the place and do some dusting if company is coming...
I'm not going through a dry spell, so much as a flood. It's not blogger's block, it's a blog jam, but I didn't want to steal Norah Vincent's schtick. I have about four posts on the burner---chain bookstores and why they are not evil, the granite indifference that Red Zone America has for European opinion, and why it is well deserved; why there is no such thing as international law, and unexpectedly rediscovering a pleasure of my childhood.
But I get down to the end of each and run out of steam. In the case of the political rants, I just get the feeling that I've said all this before, repeatedly, and there's no point in going further (that's because I'm always ranting to Niles beforehand---I told him that this blog would save him from that fate, but apparently I've lied). And if I haven't said it before, someone else has, and better.
The only topic I'm sure some better writer has not yet covered is my own anecdotes and memories, but it always seems very self-indulgent to write about those. But then again, is it self-indulgent to worry about being self-indulgent? Oh, there I go again, recursively worrying, creating my own little fractal pattern of insecurity.
I am, however, in good company in not being able to finish my posts. Dave Barry has the same problem.
Of course, in the time it took me to write this writhing little excuse, I could've written a real post.