Once upon a time a certain aspiring novellist said to his friends, colleagues and others that he would do a writing blog and populate this with his thoughts as he went about writing his book. He was a fool (albeit a shining, rosy faced, beautiful one).
He had not considered the implications of his rash decision. Not only would he have to go through the brain-shrivelling rigmarole of actually trying to write, but now he had to summon the requisite self-absorption to tell everyone what he was doing, package it into a neat little post and shove it onto the internet – where, presumably, it would be categorically ignored, and in a few cases not even that.
Added to this kerfuffle was the inherent problem: The more he wrote, the less he could find to tell the word about. It was like he was stuck in a never-ending retrograde cycle of pointlessness – an ouroboros of wordiness disappearing up its own arse.
To solve this he wrote a post about writing his post, which caused a rift in the space-time continuum (or something) very much like the winner of the Ignoble award here, which is a report about reporting on reports. Humans are ace at this sorta shit, as Ghandi would never have said.
Anyhoo, there you have it. A post on posting posts. And it is not the first. I may have to write a book about not writing books. That could work.