The act of sitting down to write these posts scares the living shite out of me. I’m terminally incapable of planning any piece of writing, to the point where when I do attempt to prepare something in advance I never end up with a finished product. Because of this, I thrive (and keep this Neocities running) through just hoping I suddenly get really passionate about a niche topic and (then once inspiration hits) refusing to sleep until said passion manifests itself somehow. I’ve had friends jokingly say that this gives my posts an oddly conversational tone (imagine the slightly weird old lad on the train who tells you their life story over pre-made sandwiches and scarily sweet-looking tea) but I’ve also had friends point out a concerning amount of typos in my last piece (which you should read considering I poured my soul out for no discernable reason) so I guess it balances out in the end. Regardless of this, I’m beginning to obsess over the formulaic nature of my creative output – even if I’m only realizing as such because this lockdown has been the most active I’ve actually been as a “writer” (read: useless internet wanker). Now if I wanted to try really hard to seem profound this would probably be the point where I’d claim (without a hint of humour or irony) that what I do each Monday and Thursday is the exact same as what Rob Brown and Sean Booth do when they get prodded into throwing together a new Autechre record, but even I think that metaphor is stretching it – at least technical limitations mean that their songs sometimes have melody in them. A certain cultural theorist I will not name this early in this post claimed that the only overruling feeling of this generation was the sensation of assuming everything has been done before – despite this being the tenth post-‘Fiteclub’ piece, I feel like I’ve written everything I possibly could and that thought makes the process of starting anything fairly difficult.