And why, exactly am I writing this?

I like to think I’ve read a fair bit, but I can’t think of a modern book that deals with the dilemma, not so much existential as pragmatic, of writing.  Pondering it over on the tube I remembered that such a dearth is no doubt due to the sheer modern profligacy of the written word.  The issue with which luminaries through time such as Satre and Lacan have struggled has become inherent, and inseparable from the very medium with which we now waste words.  

Twitter, Facebook, the blogosphere, and the remaining plethora of self-publishing platforms (digital or otherwise) have been instrumental, no, responsible for the democratisation of the written word in its entirety; a movement I fully endorse from a personal perspective.  I’ve very, very rarely been published in print and even then it’s often been on something not particularly relevant to my interests or passions, and I have modern media to thank for an avenue of self expression I might not otherwise have had in another life.  

I do hold, however, that we have a tendency to piddle our precious words away in the pursuit of meaningless, humble braggadocio (Twitter, though I love it sometimes) or in bastardised street dialects (Tumblr, mostly) or simply on the banal and cretinous (Facebook to blame).  

And why, exactly am I writing this? I guess I had a few excess words.