There is nothing else to write about. I have already written everything I want to. At the moment, at least. Because this is impossible. Some other time I would want to write again about something else. But at this moment, there is nothing. Or I only need to sleep.
A poem is never finished, only abandoned, says a quote. This is untrue. There is such a thing as something done. It’s when nothing else makes a positive difference. The law of diminishing returns comes to mind. And yet, when revisiting old writing, the desire to bring them back to the chopping block is always strong. I blame the constraint of publishing daily and in short time.
But then if one gives in to the urge to edit in perpetuity, one would not be able to get anything done. Here’s the big idea in this random musing I guess. The concept of having finished something is so arbitrary. It’s as if the ultimate marker for getting something done is the running out of volition. Because where will remains, there is always more to do.
If this writing exercise is serious, at this point one should remove the first two paragraphs. Write around the idea found in the previous paragraph instead. Sharpen the point with illustrative examples. Remove meta references and line up words with conviction.
At the back of one’s mind The Law of Surprise is begging for an appearance somewhere. Explain how we take the passage of time for granted so much we forget it exists in quite important contexts. Link to the concept called “the end of history.” Have Jaskier start belting “Toss a coin to Your Witcher.” Nothing is ever done for real.
But alas this is not a serious writing exercise. This is a hobby. My audience is myself, and I’m learning how to be patient with the writer. Also, this is the three hundred and twenty sixth word. For what started with me staring at a void, writing only what came to mind, I’m rather pleased with how this went. Right now, at least.
Enough for today.