Here I am at the beginning of a new year, and I feel as though I have nothing new to talk about.
Those of you who have faithfully followed this blog know full well that I usually only talk about one thing: how much work I have to do and how much I’d rather be sleeping. I complain. I complain creatively, but that doesn’t change the fact that I spend most of my writing energies on complaining.
The Risible Rambler has evolved since its beginning in 2011. It started out as a humor blog, and nothing but a humor blog. No glimpses into my angst-ridden soul, no rants, and lots of forced laughter. As I near graduation and face the inevitable existential crisis that accompanies it, the blog has gotten a lot more personal. Thanks for sticking with me anyways. The Rambler remains risible, since more than one of you has let me know how much my posts make you laugh. Even if you laugh because of a grievous typo, at least you’re laughing. I can proudly say that the blog hasn’t deviated too far off its intended course.
This year saw the beginning of the Flights of Fiction. These scribblings sprang from my ever-present burning desire to be a published author. The trouble with becoming a published author is that you have to actually write a book to get published. I knew that the only way my book would get written was if I incorporated it into the blog—hence my scattered and grievously unedited segments from The Book, published once a week (if I’m lucky).
I wrote and released a lot of poems this year. I would not have done this if it weren’t for the magical influence of the genius who blogs here, who at one point wrote a poem every week. His poems and song lyrics are brilliant, his blog is brilliant, and he’s brilliant, and some of that brilliance must have rubbed off on me because I’m cranking out haikus and sonnets and pantoums like a beatnik. I might catch up with Emily Dickinson yet
I’m afraid, however, that this year will see The Risible Rambler mutate into a tabloid of my inner turmoil. I don’t know what I want to do with myself after college anymore. I should probably figure out what I need to do or look forward to a life of living in a cardboard box and trying to sell my poems on street corners. If surviving college was this difficult, how on earth will I survive The Real World? Stay tuned, folks, it’s going to be a wild ride.
But one thing I can’t give up—one of the many things I can’t give up—is the blog. It’s habit now. I get twitchy if I think I’m going to miss posting for a day. All day I wonder about what I’ll write that night and scribble down ideas in the margins of my notes or on my hand or on little easily-lost scraps of paper. I can’t stop writing. You all, bless your saintly souls, will be here through all of my panicking. I will probably panic a lot this semester. Panicking is funny. This blog is supposed to be about funny things, so there you have it. Make ‘em laugh. Through the ups, through the downs, I’ll keep laughing—and hopefully you’ll be laughing, too.