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As an aspiring writer who has finally scraped together the courage to create a blog, I am faced with a serious case of cold feet. Suddenly I am in a position (by choice, I might add, but that rarely counts for anything when complaining) where I now need to put my mouth where my blog is. By necessity, I must now presume to be worthy of attention and interest. I tell you what, it’s a daunting prospect for someone who’s only ever gotten so far as to keep an all-too-average diary. But I’ve made my bed and I guess it’s time to lie in it. Not before I expound on all these feelings of inadequacy, though. ‘Cos it’s my blog and I’ll write what I want to…

So this is my great internal struggle in a nutshell: how do I so arrogantly presume that what I have to say (or write, in this case) is of any value or importance whatsoever? Were we to psychoanalyze the shit out of this question, we would no doubt reach the conclusion that this particular dilemma is deeply rooted in my own feelings of inadequacy and constant fear of failure and rejection. But, since this is in fact a blog and not my weekly session with my mini-Indian therapist, we will instead try to look for a more meaningful and widely-applicable alternative.

Consider, if you will, the following possibility: in this world of over-blogging and social networking excess, it is perhaps not too outlandish to hesitate to contribute yet more drivel to this opinionated morass. As has been widely remarked by all and sundry, we live in a world of over-exposure where every minute detail of our lives suddenly acquires considerable importance (or so it seems). We must constantly emote, express, expound… preferably with a photographic accompaniment, ever too artistically improved through amateur filters. It is, undoubtedly, the norm for every wannabe artistic anything to document their meagre contributions to this thing called life. (Watch out, La, your cynicism is showing…). Ok, true. But this situation merits some cynicism. Our writing has, much like our lifestyles, become a matter of quantity over quality. We have allowed our instant-gratification needs to infiltrate even our arts, these works that especially require time and caring attention.

And yet, as you’ve no doubt noticed, I am not immune to this slow degradation of the written art, since here I sit, contributing my opinionated drivel to this overflowing morass. I guess I’m just another product of my generation like Twitter, Facebook and apathy.

So with no small sense of irony, I hereby upload these words committed to digital page with a vague attitude of “Ah well, fuck it.”. May you get a particular kick out of my special brand of hypocrisy, like only blogging can provide.

La Labouche, signing off…

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