I've always wanted to laundry list shit. I frankly have no idea what else to do with it. You can only spin yarns about staying at home and interacting with nothing but books or people on a screen for just so long. Writing short stories is easier than trying to write something engaging here. I try to think of a hip angle but it comes out as shite. All I can think of is to complain sometimes and not exactly in a literary way. Maybe I went somewhere wrong in thinking that I could feel more like a writer for writing here.

Bless me, that's a topic. Why is it that actual writers on diaryland receive moderate press, whereas the UncleBob's of the cyber world have hundreds that flock to their gates? Maybe I'm a petty fuck--I'm plenty of other things--but shouldn't there be some correlation, some sort of true writing substance that backs up having a cult status? I've studied these famous diaries more than I care to admit and, through it all, I've discovered a number of techniques employed that seem simple, so brazenly simple:

*Use simple, direct, unambiguous language. Reading Boy-Ashamed, for example, you don't run into complex metaphor, description or even really thoughtful narrative structure. You get a simple story about things that actually happen and just what the person felt.

*A white background with a slightly less white background bordering it. If I had the statistical software still, I'd actually analyze it�but I swear that there's something about a white background and black type that makes people think "Ah ha! You, good sir/madam, are the font of life itself! Let me park my ass here and gorge on your douty wisdom. Glug Glug motherfucking Glug."

*Throw proper grammar out the window.

*Spin off anecdotes about random episodes in your past that have no relevance to current events. I point to Waldon as the exemplar of this school of thought.

Now before you think I'm pissed off because my hit count doesn't reach their own, that isn't the case. I just wonder why good writers, great writers like Ghanima or Guildenstern don't receive more attention or praise for their efforts (not to plug, just for example). Is it all just in vain because you're supposed to write for the lowest common denominator? I'm well-aware most Americans have a 7th grade reading level, but damnit doesn't anyone push themselves to read or do something that might be slightly beyond them? I'd always thought that people read something to somehow improve themselves, find inspiration, fuck, find some kind of way to reflect on themselves.

And then I wonder if simple, unambiguous language and a white background are just those things. Somehow inspiring people's lives. I can't understand that. Maybe I've missed something in reading UncleBob while relishing something from Ghanima. Is there some magic I'm not catching? For my own count�to indulge a moment�I put a lot into this journal and I often wonder if it's at all worthwhile. Every entry I struggle and simultaneously relax to let something flow: should it be formal, less formal, more literary, more contemporary. I move in a sort of circle like a drunk voodoo priest, hoping to bless something with the slit chicken throat I'm wielding. But what do I or anyone else that really puts their heart into it get? That could sound like immature whining, but in all honesty: I don't find satisfaction in writing unless someone else appreciates it. There isn't any other reason to write in a journal format except maybe some selfish idea that your thoughts are sacred and worth keeping for yourself.

At the risk of sounding like an over-the-top jackass: where's the love for writers? Maybe the diary/journal medium itself is far different than the short stories or articles I write. I wish I understood it better�-not to get more feedback or be popular, but just to see if I can do it well.

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