How A Post Is Made

St. Augustine writing, revising, and re-writing: Sandro Botticelli’s St. Augustine in His Cell (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

• Write
• Save after every paragraph
• Squeeze in all available puns
• And then some more
• Save
• Proofread  
• Google Proofread proof read for correct usage  
• Save
• Justify text
• Save
• Change font colour to red
• Save
• Change font colour to black
• Save
• Add picture(s)
• Save(s)
• Add links
• Save
• Preview
• Check links work
• Check links highlighted
• Check links open in another page
• Save
• Spell check
• Save
• Preview
• Check
• Check
• Check
• Check
• Check again
• Add Categories  
• Add Tags  
• Add witty Twitter comment to entice readers
• Publish
• Check

A post takes about thirty minutes to write and ninety minutes to perfect.

If I come back to a post at a later date and discover a typo or other error, I have to rest on my bed for an afternoon to recover.

This post first appeared two years ago.  

The system is rigidly adhered to.  Or else.

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Tory Boy (Photo credit: Big Richard C)

NOTE:

Tory Boy gave me a heart attack.  I was preparing this post and he was sitting on the couch behind me.

TB2: You’ve published early.

TB1: I haven’t published yet.

TB2: Yes you have – ‘How A Post Is Made’.  There’s a list.

TB1: [Terrified Small Creature impression; looks from monitor to TB2’s tablet to monitor]: Oh no!  Oh no!  Oh no!  I can’t believe it!  I’m writing about writing perfect posts and I screwed up!

TB2: [Collapsed in heap of hysterical laughter]: … … … …

TB2: You haven’t published!  I read the title on your monitor!  [Rushes to toilet in wet pants] [Not really; but a mother needs her revenge]

*

This is the same child who managed to get me to thank him for locking his brother in the loft.  Putting away the Christmas decorations, Spud was up top, Tory Boy passing to him, and I was directing.  Once the last, fragile bag was carefully passed up, I headed downstairs, calling ‘Thanks’ a split-second after TB closed the loft hatch on his brother, sealing him into the crowded, dirty and freezing roof space.

I don’t think Spud minded – it looks better than his room.