I spent an hour and a half writing something only to delete it near the end. It wasn’t a controversial piece. It was not slanderous or libelous or otherwise defaming. It was actually sort of funny. Therein lies the problem. It was “sort of” funny. Not funny, certainly not hilarious. Just not funny. My post was in the tall tale tradition of great writers such as Mark Twain, though certainly not as folksy and, of course, not anywhere in the same league.
This exercise in futility makes me ask: Did I just waste an hour? No. How can I answer otherwise? I relived a pleasant memory and made myself chuckle a few times. But I didn’t want what I had written out there forever. That is not to say that my body of work does not contain certain instances of crap. It does. Perhaps, what I do here online is an exercise but not futile after all. I create. I write. I amuse, myself. Maybe what I wrote will be a basis for some fresh material for a book. The idea is coming together. Now, if only I can center my thoughts.
Hmmm? Oh, I’m sorry. I was just thinking out loud.