I started this blogging business on the 20th of August this year. Which, by simple equation means that I have now been blogging for over 3 months. And today, lo and behold, I am writing my 100th post.
This isn’t particularly a big deal. In fact, it’s not a big deal at all.
I entered into this blogosphere without any expectations. There wasn’t a benchmark of posts I intended to hit, not a set amount of “followers” (I abhor that expression); nor was there a certain number of comments or likes I set as a benchmark to determine my success as a blogger. Actually, I had no idea how blogging really worked, so before I’d set up this page, I didn’t even know that commenting and liking was possible.
However, and having said such things, I do take some gratification from this monumental occasion. And that thing is …
I’ve been consistent.
Consistency, I don’t think, is celebrated greatly by many people. If anything, the notion of consistency relates almost directly to humdrumness, boredom, and a lack of spontaneity; or, even worse, the general rule.
For me, however, someone whose mind is about as predictable as Melbourne weather, (not very predictable for the non-Australians) consistency is a great thing.
And what’s more, I reckon that it should be treated as such by everyone.
Although I never intended to become one, I am, I guess, an artist. In fact, pertaining to the epitome of originality, I’m a manic depressive writer.
This, in relative-fact, means two things:
a) It means that I haven’t really chosen this lifestyle, it’s chosen me. I write because it’s a form of therapy, and without this process of self-extradition, there’s a high chance I’d have given this thing we refer to as life up by now.
But it also means that,
b) Consistency is a virtue.
For anyone who’s not a writer according to the general manner in which we exercise the term, writing is a tedious process.
Scrap that, the creation of art, generally, is a tedious process.
Whatever your platform, creating something, anything, will take time. I mean, just think of your college years; the mere thought of a two thousand-word essay was daunting, right? Now, think about writing fifty essays of that length, on the same topic! It’s pandemonium, or, more aptly, it’s pandemonium’s exact opposite: perfect order-monium. Whatever that does, or does not mean.
As a general rule, people tend to think that “creative types,” the artists, are a wild, capricious, untameable hue of human, whose lives are governed by ephemeral undulations, and superfluous grandeur and verbosity. What? Umm. Yeah, carrying on.
And it is true that artists are, in an idealistic sort of way, clusters of spontaneity laced with constructive abstractions. However, the process in which art has life breathed into it is very boring.
When I tell people that I’m a writer, they always think that I must live such an interesting life. I don’t know why that is. Because really, my days are spent sitting in a cafe, pecking at keys on my laptop, while I observe this obscure world thing around me. Then, I read. And then, I poop. There’s not much more to it.
Not that interesting.
Granted, I am a bit of a cliché: I wear velvet jackets, pointed shoes, flamboyant rings and paint my nails, oh, and like I mentioned, I’m mentally irregular. However, when you look at the daily activities I indulge my senses with, they’re rather routine. And if they weren’t, well, for one, I wouldn’t be at 100 posts. Creation necessitates consistency. Without one, you don’t get the other.
And so then, by equation, consistency is something that should be celebrated, not ridiculed. Well, not always, I guess. It is the basis from which all works of art flower. It is an important feat, indeed.
Point of this story: when you mix denim’s, you’re left with a fruit salad that’s as tasty as raw asparagus and a hat worn by Jack Sparrow. And what’s more, if people started going to bed at an earlier hour, there’d be less alcoholic beverages to consume in Israel.
Thanks for watching!
Humans-are-consistent-in-their-ways. Creativity is interesting, creating is not.