Twelve hundo posts a year, bois and girls, twelve hundred goddamn posts I made this year

And it's not even November yet!

The journey to this point has been difficult, particularly this year, when I completed any sort of understanding that I was doing it for the novel or to improve my writing, and didn't write any experimental or fiction pieces at all. The days where I wrote fiction daily seem so far away and so quaint, when I was more motivated and put-together. This place has turned into one large diary by now.

But I'm not complaining.

I'm still writing, ain't I, and I haven't given up even though several times this year I stopped writing for a week or two (or three) at a time. But then I got by butt clenched and just went back to writing, running the fingers against the goddamn keyboard because what else is there, you know? Like what am I doing if I'm not writing, how else am I productively using my time anyway. The answer is obviously, pretty much almost always, "I'm not, it's all a giant waste of time". As I like to say, creating reallly smelly awful disgusting infested dump of shit is better than not creating anything. For the act of creation, doing something from nothing, making something that lasts and help us connect to the future, is what makes us 'godly' in a sense. For what is the universe if not one giant exercise in creativity?

What else is there to say anyway...party on, dudes? Slap myself on the back, buy something nice to reward myself... I don't know, this tells me that with enough gumption and grit I can totally completely just stick to something and go at it, no uhs and ums. With sheer willpower I can create the universe of my imagination.

If that's not fun, I don't know what is.