So, I don’t think many people read blogs. I don’t, even though I have a great many friends who are great writers and have a great many things to say. It’s just that, I don’t know if I have the tolerance for the kind of reading necessary to dedicate myself to following folks and peering into the slices of their lives they’ve modified for public consumption. Fault me not, my academic training has been literary (BA: Psych/Engl; MA: Engl Lit; PhD: Lit and Crit) so what am I supposed to do with internet prose if not analyze, critique, and apply literary theory? That doesn’t work, and now you see my issue. The truth is, I don’t know what to do with blogs. I guess I can garner recipes, hear about my friends’ travels (of which, undeniably, I’ll react more out of jealousy than awe), learn about people’s political stance; but really, I figured this out:
I have a Goodreads account, and I’m a little paranoid and a little (I’m stressing “little” here) bit on the compulsive spectrum, so I counted how many books I read last year. Around 50 books is a nice average for me, yearly. So then I looked at my age (33 in two weeks) plus what my potential life expectancy might be (I’m healthy, give me 85, so that’s 52 more years, give or take) did a little infantile math, and realized that, barring blindness, I will read ONLY 2600 books from now until my death. I know, it’s a bit ridiculous, but when you put a number on it, it seems quite small, right? I feel every literary decision, from here on out, will have to be made very carefully. I cannot read endless books, only 2600 more. And there are around 1,000,000 books published just in the US each year. So my point is, how much of that precious precious time do I want to use reading blogs?
Which leads me to the eventual: why, than, am I writing one? I don’t know. I’ve tried it before. A previous publisher set one up when my novel came out and I wrote in it. No one read it, I was bored by it, but there it was. Marketing, and me: an author in a capitalist society. I guess, if I had to speculate as to why I have the egocentric motivation to write one now, knowing full well very few will ever read it, that I’m doing it because, well, I’m a writer. This doesn’t mean I’m a good writer, or a celebrated writer, or even a prolific writer. Nor, really, am I a writer who has a persistent need to be read. I just have a persistent need to write. So here is the repository. There’s a page on this site where I’ll post new publications as they are released (I’ve been pretty lucky there are editors out there that want my fiction read). I’ll also ramble inconsequentially, like this. And I’ll post travelogues, in the hopes that a temp from National Geographic will randomly alight upon this page, enjoy a turn of phrase, and pass me on to the powers-that-be so I can travel all day, every day, and write about it.
And, finally, if you don’t much care about quantifying life through tome consumption, I figure this could be another anthropological fossil from the Information Age designed to prove humans only used a smidgen of their brain’s potential pre-Apocalypse.
So, here’s the repository.