Mark asked me why I bothered writing so much on my blog, and I honestly didn’t have a good answer. Because I’m an attention whore that likes the idea that people out there read my words and thinking about what I say? It feeds the little ego-monster that crave an escape from the quite asocial and awkward guy that spends too much time in front of the computer, and too little time doing something useful.

Mark’s question was really just the off-hand type, the sort you ask half-way between the fridge and the sofa, the one you don’t stay to hear the answer to. The type of question that is more an observation than a demand for an answer. Like, “must you sit in the way?”.

But hah, being me, it did give me a subject to consider – and subjects to over-think are good, aren’t they? It gives me something to feed the yapping mind that churns and churns and churns, and which functions much like a herd underfed ferrets that live in a cage and jump around to fetch little flies.

Words… I spit out a lot of words every single day of my life, and if words have a sort of value, then there is a lot of inflation in my words. We’re often speaking Weimar-republic inflation in the worthlessness of my words.

Yet, words are the most important things in the world to me. Spoken, written, sung – my whole life seem to revolve around words. And then, in a way, despite the torrents of words that I can spit out per minute, words don’t come easy to me. Not the meaningful words, not the words that get under the skin.

All my effort is to find those words that burrow under the skin, and have meaning beyond the page. To have substance, you have to know. To know, you have to experience.

What have I experienced? Nothing much. The spoilt single-child brat of an upper middle class family that have never wanted for anything and whose biggest problem have been not getting an expensive toy at Christmas.

The saying, which has been attributed to anyone that has ever put thoughts to paper and have had people read it, goes like “write what you know”. It’s quite a stupid saying because obviously a writer of mysteries wouldn’t actually murder someone, and a writer of SF wouldn’t actually know how to pilot a starship. But deeper down, the saying is true, because to write is to know how to articulate being human.

Anyone reading it is human, and knows how to be human, and words speak to that humanity. The writer has to be able to formulate that humanity, and choose the words to express that humanity. But what if you haven’t experienced much of what a human experiences? What if you haven’t experienced hunger, want, unfairness, injustice, hate, love, joy, pride, strength and hope?

I can spit out all the words in the world at a clip of hundreds of words per minute, but if I can’t encapsulate those feelings in what I write, then what’s the point? To be able to encapsulate those states of humanity in words, I must experience those. Right? And I haven’t. Yet. Except for just a few things.

So, going back to Mark’s question, what do I actually think that I have to offer to anyone that happen to read all these words that I vomit out on paper through these fingers that race across the keyboard at the moment? Nothing much, truth be told.

Which makes me wonder what the drive is that make me think of what could act as a blog-post several times a day, and which makes me file little insignificant events away in the mental folder for inclusion in whatever I write.

When I go on stage to sing, there is such a buzz that goes through me that slows time to a stop, and which speeds it up to infinity – both at the same time.

My perceptions are so keen that I notice every blink, every hand-movement. If I put my mind to it, I’m sure I could register the movement of air atoms, up there on the stage. Also, the gigs are over at once. I go up on stage, and the gigs are over, even if I’ve been up there for hours. Matrix bullet-time and instant progression, at the same time.

George Orwell wrote that at the heart of every writer is a narcissistic attention whore that want to appear to be clever, and in thinking about it I suppose that encapsulates why I write and why I click on the stats when they are slow and think “Christ, everyone has grown bored now and I should quit and forget about this crap”.

If this is true, I don’t think that I’d be the only one, so I wouldn’t feel particularly guilty. And yes, the idea that some people read all these words that I spit out, and take time out of their busy day to follow my thoughts, is fun.

More than fun, it’s fulfilling in the same way, but a much more muted way, than the absolute rush of endorphins that I get when I walk off a stage on wobbly knees and listen to all that applause and that cheering that is aimed at me. It makes me feel special, privileged, and not much like the true and real Colin.

The one that write blog-posts unshaven and unshowered on Monday mornings all alone in a cottage in the Swedish country-side. That Colin who doesn’t much resemble the stage-Colin, or the blog-Colin because so much is left out of either.

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