Of the many activities that I enjoy at times, writing is (believe it or not) one of the most natural and also challenging. Challenging because as I grow older, I am less patient with my own style, with a whiny kvetching that I see far too often in others, and have grown utterly intolerant of in myself. So it requires much greater effort to achieve what used to be simple – to make a statement or an observation, without lapsing into a habitual state of mind, without using tired and predictable phrasing. To be blunt, to observe the challenges of life within their own context without just, well, bitching.
In addition, I find that as I watch the years fly past, that I wish to see results. Not to say that I am more impatient, indeed quite the opposite, but rather that I find it distasteful to flail about, making excuses for the noise, while achieving nothing. I see conflict everywhere, often completely unnecessary, because everyone seems to believe they and their desires should take precedence, and I see others give way, not because it is right or just or even to avoid a fight, but because it is easier. Failing because it is easy is even more repugnant than pointless whining, and far more damaging.
Regardless, I have as of late been endeavoring to write more consistently, although mostly introspectively and unpublished, even here amongst the hubris and spooge puddles. Let us see if I can make the change and push myself to a higher standard, shall we?