I keep coming back to these blogs. Weekly ruminations. Updates about my life. Open journal entries. I’ve written about yard work three weeks in a row.
Yard work! I should start a podcast. Yard work for people who are bored with yard work. By a person who is bored with yard work. Talk about a million dollar idea.
I think I’ve been blogging for like six or seven years. Weekly. That’s some resolve.
I started blogging soon after I published Shot Across the River Styx. The idea was to generate some attention for that book. And the two books that followed. How much attention did I generate? Not very much.
I hopped on social media about the same time. Twitter. Facebook. The modern age. Picked up a couple of followers. Posted some pictures of my cats. And then my sons. And then my graying hair. Did I generate much attention for my books? Not really. And now it’s 2021. Social media is an apocalyptic hellscape. I wonder if I should’ve steered clear altogether.
Anyway, here I am. Still writing weekly. It’s a chore. Like taking out the trash.
Why am I still at it?
Honestly, I have no idea.
I think my writing is better than it used to be. Practice makes practice. Deborah Britzman wrote about that. She was talking about learning to teach. Practicing an art is complex. Teaching is an art. Writing is art. And so on.
Let me be clear. I’m not suggesting that my writing is masterful now. Just better than it used to be. These blogs have been a place to practice my practice. Get more comfortable with words. So I guess that’s good.
And I’ve had a place to work out the trials and tribulations of being alive. Make sense of my anxieties. I’m pretty open about the things that make me anxious. I think everybody gets anxious. Most people seem to hide it better than me. I’m not about repression. There’s evil down that path. People often make fun of me for being anxious. Fair enough. I’d rather be honest than appear composed. And I’m leery of people who hide their emotions away. Who lash out at others who don’t. That seems unhealthy to me.
These blogs have been little places to muse about the week before. The week ahead. I rarely say anything profound. Or strategic. I just keep arranging words for the sake of arranging words.
Sometimes these blogs do make me think. Or laugh. Or surprise me. Hopefully that comes across to the reader. What else comes across?
Once more, I have no idea.
So I’m finished with the first draft of a science fiction novel. Its working title is The Person on the Other Side of this Book. The book makes me think, laugh, and feel. And it surprises me. I hope it has the chance to so for others.
I’m querying literary agents right now. Querying the heck out of them. No biters yet. We’ll see. I’ll keep after it. I don’t want to self-publish this one. I’d like to go through a traditional publishing process. Experience that. And I don’t feel rushed to get this thing out into the world. I’ve been sitting on it for awhile. What will it hurt to sit a little longer?
Many agents ask if you keep a blog. I do. I link to this website. And I can only imagine what folks make of these posts.
“This person writes about yard work.”
“This person writes about anxiety.”
“This person has two extremely frenetic children.”
Sometimes I write about improv. Or teaching. Or whatever the heck I want. It’s my blog after all. And I may not know the purpose it serves. Or the attention it generates. But it has become a chore. And, like the garbage, I tend to it every week.
There’s worse habits to have. Read about a few here.