Posts Tagged ‘blog.’

Blogging Addictively

Posted: May 4, 2012 in Blogs
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I wrote this a few minutes ago in reply to healthdemystified‘s post on being a blogaholic. I happen to believe that many people do everything, or most things fairly, sustainably. I find that an addiction is not necessarily a bad thing. my addiction to apples might just help keep my cholesterol level down, thanks to pectin-infused blood vessels. On the other hand, if I have insulin issues, I might want to regulate sweetness in my veins. I suppose it’s just whether the habits we have are dysfunctional or sustainable, or even worthwhile.


If I am unemployed and allow my addiction to interfere with my job hunt, it then poses a problem in a few ways;

#1 paying the grocer’s, mortgage, bills, and the like.

#2: the possible scenario where I have no internet connection due to #1.

#3. the lack of sunlight due to blogging in darkness might cause Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) which will lead me to be sad, and deteriorate the register of my writing, unless I have been writing pretty sad blogs all along.

#4. My health will suffer as a consequence and cholesterol might be clogging my arteries. I might get suffer cardiac arrest, die and a mind chockful of ideas would be found in a skull mounted on a web-strewn laptop.


#1. Now, that should be a sufficient reason to look for a job, or in the case of someone who’s employed, to do it well, get some exercise, and be a sustainable blogger.

#2. One could also blog on one’s field of expertise and gain kudos for one’s insightful grasp of a professional subject matter, get a raise and be invited to champagne-laced events where I’d be the one being toasted.

#3. Good writing is as much a result of good reading habits. One keeps the brain from succumbing to Alzeheimer’s.

#4. One is interacting with the world, assimilating information, criticising it and sharing it with the world to the best of one’s wit and wordsmithery, with a personal touch. One is connected to the world of ideas, and less likely to turn into a Unabomber recluse.

#5. It keeps a person away from being a lager lout or a swiss-cheese brained meth-head junkie.

Now, whether this is a dysfunctional affliction or not, that is for the individual to decide. At the end of the day, a person without an addiction is a person without passion. Agree?


This is one of those rainy days. It has been raining all afternoon, drenching me with lethargy.  I feel somewhat uninspired to do the things I really should, like writing a decent blog. Emulating all accomplished writers, I am writing this because I have to.

I would like to step out of the claustrophobic confines of my apartment.  Azumi, my cat, is curled up half-asleep on my bookcase, and drawls out a languid meow when  I stroke her and she slips back to sleep. Dejected, I return to the laptop, thinking where I could go and find a fresh insight into my current condition and perhaps a sliver of inspiration.

Where should I go and what should I do? I am currently reading Gladwell’s The Tipping Point and I could go somewhere with life teeming around me with their shopping and dating going on in a mall and disconnectedly read it. I have to recharge my DSLR’s battery, if I decide to play the part of the urban paparazzi on a hunt for that lucky kaleidoscope of pixels.

The sun is sliding down over the upright slabs of concrete people call home.  The full moon will dance and take centrestage. The air is cool and the club I call my apartment has dimmed with the ebbing sunlight. I do have to get out, and I will just get prepared. My tummy’s throwing a tantrum, and I will have to entertain it too.

Good morning Saturday!

Posted: March 4, 2012 in Blogs
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4.00am. It is the best time of the day for me, long before the birds stir from their silent perch, and people cocooned under their sheets. The pavements below are damp from the quiet rainfall earlier.

I have had a handful of dark grapes to begin my morning with. After breakfast, I plan to write more.

“Why do you want to be a writer?” asks David Morell, who started writing “First Blood” in 1968, a movie that turned blockbuster eighteen years later.

Morell never did expect the commercial success “First Blood”, slipping the name of his character, Rambo, on to the lips of an American President and a household name and American icon across the world.

What inspired him was the sheer excitement of imagining the thrill of an battle-hardy Vietnam veteran with an arrogant small-town sheriff, and bringing the war home.

He asks this question to present a reality check to all would-be authors. The effort required of all authors are considerable. Time. Lots of it. Effort that could be better used elsewhere, and guarantee some return on investment.

The world is flooded with hundreds of thousands authors and would-be authors in this era of blogdom and self-publishing, across genres and type. Writers have to contend with years of time, energy and other resources without any guarantee of returns. Any would-be authors had better keep their day jobs, Morell and many other professional writers advise.

Some might seek fame. How many of knew David Morell as the author of First Blood? Honestly, I didn’t. I found that out not too long ago from his book, “Lessons From a Lifetime of Writing: A Novelist Looks at His Craft”. Recognition is short-lived and not too different from many other careers in the marketplace, you’¢re only as good as your last game.

Why do I want to write? Would I write if it never bought me the Ferrari 400 I saw on Discovery Channel, or see my name in the credit rolls of a movie or an award-winning documentary?

I need to put some old demons to rest. For one, to quieten that old incessant nag that creeps up on me on those quiet nights when, close to sleep I ask,

If I could do anything without the possibility of failure, what would it be?

“Write,” it replies in an imperceptible whisper.

“If I die in a year, what would I want to be doing?”

“Write,” it prods.

I want to write for the memory of casting my tiny little green WWII soldiers, cast as Leftenant Hanley and Sgt Saunders, of the TV series Combat, leading a platoon to rappel down a steep cliff of a chair with Mum’s sewing threads, fighting off – mum’s – big-jawed, long-teethed monster hairclips when I was seven.

I want to write for the family who always thought I was the creative one, though always a rebel. My sister secretly kept a story I had written at thirteen for a class assignment. A friend won a storytelling competition at the community level with a tale I penned for her at twelve.

I want to write again after a long hiatus, after short stint as a reporter in a food magazine. I want to write holding the thought of those who wrote back with praise in response to my articles. They were my readers. Subsequently, Life gave back, with seven years of a buffet of destinations across the world experience in the hospitality and travel industry. I have no regrets whatsoever.

A friend told me he had cut out an article for the magazine, which I wrote 15 years ago, when I was only his acquaintance, and he thought the article was a refreshing one and had a distinct voice from the rest of the journal. I covered a hoi polloi beat.

To rekindle the sense of pride for every decent essay I wrote in school and the sense of complete exhilaration and rapture creating an imaginary world during an important English composition examination at sixteen. The poignant stories I spinned in my head for the sheer heck of it. Even if it involved ballerinas and commando troopers.

I want to write because it is the last thing I want to do and if I don’t, I know I will live long enough to regret it.

Now, I have to go find my voice.