When I emerged from college with a Bachelor’s in English, no job prospects and the dream of one day becoming a professional writer, the advice I expected to receive from others in my chosen field was simply, “write.” It’s what any sensible person would tell you to do if you wanted to become a writer. Practice you craft. If you want to become a professional golfer, practice your putt. If you want to become a fireman, go find some fires to put out and, if you can’t find any fires, start some fires and then put them out. It’s such a romantic notion: just write. Every morning, pull back the curtains of your canopy bed, walk barefoot to your maple wood desk, woodland creatures nipping at your heels, dip your feather quill into the inkwell and summon the spirits of David Foster Wallace. And then write. It doesn’t matter what you write, just write. Put the words on the page over and over again until the angel of prose manifests herself in your room and says the immortal words, “We’ll give you some money for this shit.”
But, seeing as this is 2013, a time when Twitterverse is a word and Borders bookstores are now empty warehouses, stocked only with potential for teenage vandalism, the advice I got instead was: start a blog.
Fantastic. Happy Thanksgiving, Aunt Carol! I’m doing great, how about you? Yes, I certainly am happy to finally be done with school. Thank you so much for the fifty dollars you sent me for my graduation, I really appreciate it. The job search? Oh, you know how it is with this economy. Jobs are hard to come by. But I do have a blog! No. No, it doesn’t pay anything. Yes. I’m still living at home. You’re absolutely right Aunt Carol. A blog is not a job. How’s Uncle Joe? Is his psoriasis acting up again?
So, this is my blog. Welcome! This is where I shall write down all of the thoughts that manifest themselves into my brilliant liberal arts degree brain for you to consume. You, internet denizen, wayward traveler of Tumblr way-stations and StumbleUpon oases, have wandered upon my blog, where I will perform acts of literary wonder. Or I’ll just scribble the ramblings of a 23-year-old who recently discovered that his parents purchased On Demand while he was away at school.
Here’s what you can expect from this blog: lists; .gifs; whiffs of superiority; moral inconsistencies; a thinly veiled contempt for steampunk; RuPaul-isms; references to movies I’ve never seen; excuses for why I haven’t watched The Sopranos yet; unprovoked rants about Taylor Swift; witty retorts; droll observations; hostile attacks; a proper delineation between your and you’re; Yiddish slurs; bric-a-brac; shenanigans; tomfoolery; side eyes; pictures of butts if necessary; a desperate yearning to meet or be Parker Posey; games of Fuck Marry Kill involving serial killers; 1890s nostalgia trend pieces; pie.
If that mostly sounds good to you, please stick around and read my tangents. If that doesn’t sound good to you, please go back to listening to Bruno Mars or whatever you were doing before you ended up here. If you work for a magazine, newspaper, or professional blog where money is traded for words, PLEASE HELP ME I’M STUCK IN A DARK CORNER OF THE INTERNET AND WILL DO WHATEVER YOU WANT I’M BEING HELD HERE AGAINST MY—