Armed with the new “write shorter posts” mantra----I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. Because, to me, writing shorter posts means writing in here everyday.
Eugh!
The mere thought of this, as predicted, quickly descended into banality.
There was the whole idea I had yesterday of writing about my trusty red rain boots---how I love the little dears!
But that had to be squashed.
While ebullient ravings about my favorite Wellies would certainly fit the description of “short”---frankly, there’s not much drama in rubber boots. No matter how trusty, how red or how near and dear.
I did visit with a friend and see his lovely new place. But there was no plot to keep you dangling on the edge of your chair. Just a nice visit and a cup of tea and a long description of the sort of gorgeous place you can have for your very own in Manhattan for around two million dollars.
I did take my wet boots off before entering so as not to ruin the beautiful hardwood floors. But that’s more Emily Post than blog post.
I slept in. But I didn’t even have any sordid, analyzable, Jungian dreams.
In short---I have nothing to report.
And that’s the problem with this sort of blog.
For blogs that offer information or advice, there is always something to write about. The writer of a cooking blog can always make a quick jotting on the delicious smoked mussels pate they whipped up in haste. After all, you have to eat everyday. A news blogger always has news at their disposal. Little Salam Pax kept on blogging and blogging with no electricity, no internet and no media sources to speak of all while the bombs fell over Baghdad, god love him. And then there are blogs of profession like those Literary Agents who simply turn up at work in the morning, open their mail, and suddenly have a week’s worth of material at their snarky disposal.
But I’m just writing about my life. The little things that happen. Things I can take and make into bigger things worthy of a tale-to-be-told. And you don’t get a Beowulf out of goulashes. Although, if the hero did have a magic pair of red boots, I might actually attempt reading the wretched epic for the fourth try.
However, as a creative writer, I should be able to find something worthy of telling that occurs in my life on a daily basis. But it just seems so intrusive. It becomes more of a Dear Diary Dreadful. And frankly, I don’t like you people all that much.
Nothing personal.
I just don’t know you.
And I’m not so Internet-Deluded that I think you’re my friends.
Sure, a few of you are (and thanks for reading all three of you!). But even my friends don’t need this sort of daily update on my life. If they did, they most likely wouldn’t be my friends. They would be my stalkers. And I don’t invite my stalkers over for tea. They have to stand outside my window at least ten feet away. If you can smell the Earl Grey, you’re too close.
Therefore, while I faithfully vow to TRY to write shorter posts, I can not and WILL NOT blog everyday. Should I decide to start a daily blog on sensible footwear, I can promise that you faithful folks will be the first to which I provide a link. But until then, I stubbornly refuse to journal my daily life.
So, please get the paparazzi away from my building and keep the cameras and reporters away from my section at work and let me get on with my life.
However, if you must follow my every move, take all the pictures of my boots that you like---but my kitty is off-limits!
Eugh!
The mere thought of this, as predicted, quickly descended into banality.
There was the whole idea I had yesterday of writing about my trusty red rain boots---how I love the little dears!
But that had to be squashed.
While ebullient ravings about my favorite Wellies would certainly fit the description of “short”---frankly, there’s not much drama in rubber boots. No matter how trusty, how red or how near and dear.
I did visit with a friend and see his lovely new place. But there was no plot to keep you dangling on the edge of your chair. Just a nice visit and a cup of tea and a long description of the sort of gorgeous place you can have for your very own in Manhattan for around two million dollars.
I did take my wet boots off before entering so as not to ruin the beautiful hardwood floors. But that’s more Emily Post than blog post.
I slept in. But I didn’t even have any sordid, analyzable, Jungian dreams.
In short---I have nothing to report.
And that’s the problem with this sort of blog.
For blogs that offer information or advice, there is always something to write about. The writer of a cooking blog can always make a quick jotting on the delicious smoked mussels pate they whipped up in haste. After all, you have to eat everyday. A news blogger always has news at their disposal. Little Salam Pax kept on blogging and blogging with no electricity, no internet and no media sources to speak of all while the bombs fell over Baghdad, god love him. And then there are blogs of profession like those Literary Agents who simply turn up at work in the morning, open their mail, and suddenly have a week’s worth of material at their snarky disposal.
But I’m just writing about my life. The little things that happen. Things I can take and make into bigger things worthy of a tale-to-be-told. And you don’t get a Beowulf out of goulashes. Although, if the hero did have a magic pair of red boots, I might actually attempt reading the wretched epic for the fourth try.
However, as a creative writer, I should be able to find something worthy of telling that occurs in my life on a daily basis. But it just seems so intrusive. It becomes more of a Dear Diary Dreadful. And frankly, I don’t like you people all that much.
Nothing personal.
I just don’t know you.
And I’m not so Internet-Deluded that I think you’re my friends.
Sure, a few of you are (and thanks for reading all three of you!). But even my friends don’t need this sort of daily update on my life. If they did, they most likely wouldn’t be my friends. They would be my stalkers. And I don’t invite my stalkers over for tea. They have to stand outside my window at least ten feet away. If you can smell the Earl Grey, you’re too close.
Therefore, while I faithfully vow to TRY to write shorter posts, I can not and WILL NOT blog everyday. Should I decide to start a daily blog on sensible footwear, I can promise that you faithful folks will be the first to which I provide a link. But until then, I stubbornly refuse to journal my daily life.
So, please get the paparazzi away from my building and keep the cameras and reporters away from my section at work and let me get on with my life.
However, if you must follow my every move, take all the pictures of my boots that you like---but my kitty is off-limits!
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