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2001-05-24 - 12:15 a.m.

I�m not a good writer (gasps of feigned amazement from otherwise disinterested audience). I mean, I can string the odd sentence together and they can sometimes be vaguely more coherent than the output of an infinite number of monkeys sitting around an infinite number of typewriters. It�s the discipline. I can�t take it. My updates are about as disciplined as I get. Well paying jobs that just need me to whip up a couple of paragraphs on points of general interest � they�re gathering cyber dust on my hard drive as I wait and wait until there�s just no way I can hand them in any later and I wonder why I have cash flow problems. I just can�t stick at things. I have the following half-written: A collection of short stories (I don�t mean I�ve written half, I mean each one is half written), a feature film screenplay (I kind of ran out of plot) and words for a musical (this is actually a fantastic idea and will make me untold millions when I finish it. Sadly, I�ll be 97 years old). Even achievement doesn�t egg me on any. Having just had something published in a national paper that about three million people will read, all I feel is vague embarrassment. I�m not anti-fluffy journalism, and it�s not like I�d rather be publishing debates on nihilism in an obscure philosophical journal that 4 people worldwide will read, two of them immediately using it to stoke their slowly diminishing coal fires as they sit in their cosy halls of academia and await sweet, sweet death, the other two falling into such paroxysms of boredom that only emergency reading of fluffy travel pieces and being beaten about the head by an infinite number of typewriters by an infinite number of monkeys can save them. Er, anyway�.I should, like, motivate myself, or whatever. Ah, who cares?

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