Untitled June 2026

Poopity

Poopity poo. Maloonda loo.

What to write about?

Is writing vain?

Why write?

Well writing is communication.

And presumably if I wrote them I'm trying to communicate something.

Sometimes I write because I harbour fantasies of being a writer. Of being admired by others for being a writer. In other words, my words are written by a poseur. Insincere. Or at least, pretentious. I've always struggled with this suspicion, lying at the back of my head, that I'm just a pretentious poseur with nothing to say. And perhaps my display of vulnerability is a salvo, an attempt to undercut an accusations that may be levelled against me in this regard by getting to be the one who does the accusing first. What is there to say, really?

Is it okay to write when you have nothing to say? Or is it that I've been so focused on saying something that I forgot to think about what it is I'm saying? You get what I'm saying?

When I think about what I want to write all I think is poppy poopies.