In the beginning, the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people decide to obtain a computer, which provided a convenient backdrop against which one might eventually invent the internet, the blog, and the peculiarly modern torment known as “the difficult second post.”
The first post, of course, had been simplicity itself. One simply sat down, typed something—anything, really—about the weather, one’s dog, or the alarming tendency of socks to vanish into the same parallel dimension that claims biros and teaspoons, and hit publish. The universe, being busy with its own expansion and the odd supernova, had barely noticed. The words had tumbled out like a mildly confused but well-meaning stream of consciousness, and that was that.
The second post, however, was an entirely different proposition. It arrived accompanied by the sudden, ghastly realisation that someone—somewhere—might actually read it. Worse, they might have read the first one and formed expectations. Expectations are dangerous things. They lurk in the corners of the mind like Martian poetry, waiting to pounce with questions such as “What was the point of that, exactly?” or “Are you planning to make this a regular thing, or was the first one a fluke?”
Writing, it must be said, is a thoroughly unnatural act, often involving nearly divine levels of perseverance. The human brain, after all, evolved to avoid sabre-toothed tigers and locate edible roots, not to stare at a blinking cursor while the entire cosmos rearranges itself into something that might, with luck and a following wind, pass for coherent thought. A profound piece of writing can be as elusive as a decent biscuit in the universe—there is always the suspicion that the really good ones have been hoovered up by someone else while you were busy making tea.
And so the second post sits there, glowering. It demands structure. It demands insight. It demands that you do not simply repeat the charming, accidental magic of the first one, because that would be cheating, and the universe has very strict rules about cheating (most of which involve black holes and the sudden appearance of event horizons).
One might, of course, begin with a list. A standard list is shorter than an Epic List, which is so lengthy it requires more than three sighs to read, but even a modest list feels like a betrayal of the first post’s freewheeling spirit. Perhaps footnotes would help. They allow the writer to wander off on a tangent about the migratory habits of the lesser-spotted blog reader without derailing the main text entirely.
In the end, the only sensible course of action is to ignore the blank screen, make another cup of tea, and remember that the universe is vast, mostly indifferent, and far too busy expanding to care whether your second post is any good. The first one got written. The second one will too, eventually—probably just after you’ve located that missing sock.