Philo and Choire are back in business, updating their weblog into a magazine format. Good for them.
Now that I think about it, more and more people are expanding their personal websites into a more general format, maybe as a way to challenge themselves creatively. Maybe people are doing more “magazine stuff” because the weblog format has started to become stagnant. Maybe it’s a way to feed their growing amounts of audiences and/or their egos. (Oh, like I can talk. I make web games to get laid, if you remember.)
The weird thing about this whole weblogging thing is that I’ve found myself questioning if I could ever be a writer. You know, like a serious writer, someone that has an editor and furiously types away at a keyboard with a pencil behind his ear, snorting lines of coke to make it past those tight deadlines and to have something else to write about. And for the first time, I find myself saying Sure, I always wanted to try cocaine I don’t think I would be a horrible writer. God knows it would be exciting to do something else besides running test scripts, for a while, anyway.
And here is where the self-doubt sets in. Where the fuck would I start? What on earth would I write about?
The idea of writing a play has crossed my mind but God, isn’t everyone and their mom a playwright?
Me: I would like for you to read over this manuscript. It’s a feux-autobiographical story about an Asian American male and how he deals with struggles with his family, job and love life.
Hot-shot producer: So it’s like the Joy Luck Club, then.
Me: Eh. Not really, but…
HSP: Listen, we’re not accepting anything right now, but there’s a movie about the Vietnam war shooting down the street, and they need to hire some extras.
Me: Uh-huh.
And that’s when my reality check cashes in and I decide I was meant to be a web developer, nodding and smiling and not really rocking the boat too badly, because I’m absolutely petrified at failing. And then the cycle of mediocrity starts, all over again.