Still nothing

Steve noted earlier that there is quiet on the blogosphere. I think that part of the reason that this is happening to all of us all at once is that we are at least partially are feuled off of each other. I know personally that my posts didn't come nearly as often before I had a regular audience, albeit a smallish one.

Anyways, if anyone was interested, I've got an idea that might help get the sparks flowing. I read a column as part of an assignment from my playwriting class by a famous writer about his "watcher at the gates," the cynical inner editor of his that often compromised his writings. I'm going to write some words about my own watcher at the gates. Anyone wishing to join along is more than welcome. If not, I understand. Hell, I'm the only one who had to do it

My watcher at the gates is not a voice in my head, but rather, a mime. See, I can contend with and respond well to written and verbal criticism, but it is the silence that kills me. I can't bear to hear the sound of crickets after I'm done. The confused look of a face that cannot tell me what it needs to understand is torture. To see a bored face when I am only halfway done, or an expectant one when I'm through is like a dagger twisting in my gut. He knows when I sound too much like someone else, even if not a soul else does. He tortures me with his blank face. Nothing pleases him, for there is a teardrop painted on his cheek. He is a spectacle upon which I must drop the curtain in order to write.

Its not much, but It's something. Maybe something else later.