Fearg on Fridays X

Duna duna duna duna Blogman blogman blogman!

And we stop blogging till I say when. So here we are my decablog, I made it through the wilderness, you know I made it throughoughough, didn't know how lost I was until I blogged you.

That's enough of that. So on to the main theme of my tenth blog - blogging.

I have recently been musing on blogging, or rather writing in general. These musings have led me to the conclusion that for me writing is rather similar to sex. That's not in an Arnie "When I am working out I am coming" way, I'm not aroused as I write this, nor to I intend to use it for arousal. But I mean that both my writing and my lovemaking seem to follow a similar neurological path. For instance, I spend a fair bit of time thinking about each, both before and after the event. I find myself fantatsizing about crafting the perfect line just as often as I do Natalie Portman's eyes.

Then when I know I'm going to sate my desire I get excited at first, can't wait for the moment to arrive. When it does suddenly I am struck with a hint of trepidation, how does one start exactly? Should I just dive right in, or do I need to warm it up a bit first? I generally start by working lightheartedly around the edges, before starting the main thrust. Equally, both activities involve my bashing away at buttons that while I konw are there, I'm not entirely sure HOW they work, settling for the fact that they do, or at least appear to.

So once I've started and I'm happily bashing away at the buttons, eliciting what I hope are the right reactions, I feel pretty good. I like to think I'm fairly competant at the activity I'm indulging, hell how am I kidding. At the start I think I'm James Brown or Joyce, certainly a James. But then at around the mid-point I start to wonder how the recipient is feeling. Maybe they're not enjoying this as much as I would hope? Am I being too self-indulgent? Too rude? Not rude enough? Is anyone even there?(A truly worrying concern during sex)Is my ettiquette correct?

All of these worries start to have a harrowing effect on me, and I develop that fatal flaw in both creativity and humpypumpy - self awareness. Nobody looks good during sex. Nobody. Equally a piece of writing is never good until it's been read correctly, or performed, heard, digested. So trying to analyse the good bits whilst flying solo is impossible.

After the self awareness and doubt that inevitably follows I struggle on and quantity becomes the main concern with all thoughts of quality long eschewed. I burble about for a bit, my heart no longer in the process before limping to an apologetic and unsatisfying end.

Eeeeww. I hope nobody I'm trying to sleep with ever reads this. Although, if I'm trying to sleep with them I'd hope they weren't online reading any blog to be honest. Not a fan of the cyber-scene, I lie too well and if I'm doing it...

The other main similarity between my writing and my sex life, is that recently all too often both activities take place alone with my laptop in close proximity.

Mmmmm....lovely image. Oh, hi mum. Yeah a cup of coffee would be lovely thanks.

See you later!

xxx