Here it is, my 2700th post on this blog. That’s the number of actual published posts. One hundred eighty-nine additional unpublished drafts wait in the wings. I wrote about ten of those drafts last night. I’m glad I didn’t publish any of the ten I wrote last night. They would only reveal how much of a phony I am, how my facade hides the person I’d rather not reveal. Ha! I openly reveal quite a lot of my flaws, so the ones I hide must be truly astonishing. Indeed.

Lately, my posts have veered away from fiction and poetry, my two favorite things to write, and into journal entries about my life experiences. I am not sure whether that’s good or bad. My fiction and poetry have potential, I think, so ignoring them is apt to cause what skills I have to corrode and weather and weaken. My non-fiction and rants and the like hold little promise, but they might one day remind me or someone who matters to me what was on my mind during what is shaping up to be an odd time of my life. So I don’t know. Lately, nothing I write seems to grab me by the collar. Yet I continue to spoil blank screens by filling them with words.

2700 posts. That translates into 7.39726 years’ worth of posts, if I had posted just once a day. I can’t possibly have had enough ideas worth sharing to merit so many posts. So I can only conclude that I suffer what some would uncharitably call diarrhea of the fingers. Some people speak just to hear themselves talk. I type just to see what I’ve written. It’s not all bad. It’s almost impossible to produce that many posts without something decent spilling out from time to time. But the sheer volume makes it hard to wade through and find those rare gems that might merit consideration for inclusion in the “collected works.”

I’m not in the mood for writing in celebration of my 2700th post this morning. But at least I recorded the event for posterity. You can’t ignore posterity. Unless you’re the Republican party under 45.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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