I don’t know why every time I sit down to write it comes off as if I’m the most serious person living in the world today. I spend the majority of my aural day listening to comedy podcasts while driving or cooking or cleaning or washing dishes. Even most of my serious business blogs about my struggle with life are somewhat sarcastic and dismissive, though I don’t think that ever comes across if you didn’t know how I talk in real life. This speaks highly of my inability to write well. The drawbacks of expressing yourself in writing, which is known by anyone who has ever written a silly email that they then had to explain was a joke to the recipient, is that your intention isn’t clear from the words on the page. You have to color it with the right tone, which is a hell of a trick that only some professional writers can pull off (have you read most of the trash that’s published?). I don’t fancy myself a writer, I’m just a person who has an outlet in writing. Telling myself that excuses me from developing any sort of skill in writing, but I fear it’s just that, an excuse. Because learning that talent takes a lot of work and time and I’m not sure I’m willing to take the plunge into growth, which is way more difficult than most weekend workshops make it seem. Long and short of it is, you aren’t going to learn to write well, with feeling, with tone, with character, in a month. At least I’m not and who else do I care about besides me? No one, obviously. Which brings me back to myself, because that’s the person I think about the most. I swear I’m funny in real life. A bit of a sarcastic asshole, but usually well meaning and harmless. The target of most of my jokes is me. But I’m often having a good time, though you’d never know it from this blog.