Never write about writing. Never blog about blogging. You'll break your heart, or start to wonder who is reading this.
This whole thing is a vanity project, though it began as a way to try to promote my book (ha-ha). I don't think I would have thought of blogging on my own, and barely even knew what a blog was when I began in 2011 or so (or maybe it was 2010? An embryonic blog in OpenSalon was a total bust, ending in utter humiliation).
The worst thing a writer can do, ever, is worry about how something will be received, or not received. Don't just write what you know - write whatever the fxxx you want! But in the wonderful wasteland of the internet, likes and comments and hits and "going viral" count for everything, and creativity, originality and joy soon wither away.
So you just keep putting the stuff out there, because you love doing it. It's a form of play. You're never going to see money, and you're never going to see fame, though it often seems that all your Facebook friends are cleaning up at the box office and you're not.
I had four longtime followers bail on me in a 24-hour period the other day. That has never happened to me before. Generally, the direction is upward - in fact, it was for years, though the total was never very high. That wasn't the point. The point was that there was movement.
I guess there still is, just in the wrong direction. I don't know why, but I have hazarded a guess: I wrote a piece - a very heavy piece, and against all my usual principles I put it back in draft ( I refuse to delete it, and plan to put it back up again when world events catch up with me). It was pretty gloomy, and in fact doomy, but I do see signs that we, as a culture, are indeed slouching towards Bethlehem. I said so. And four people left, all at once, probably for good. Was that the reason?
I'm pretty old, and I don't keep up and don't particularly want to, but I've found a level of creative play on this thing, and on the internet in general, that I genuinely enjoy. Recent alarming health concerns have honestly made me wonder if I'll still be around in a year. It occurs to me almost daily. My body seems to be melting away as I sit here, and I can feel all my bones. Which is why the need to do what I want, without thought of consequence, is even more pressing.
So I make my George Gershwin Blingees, in the full knowledge that 90% of people will find them damn stupid, if they find them at all. But to me, it's a magic trick, finger-painting with light, and fun.
And you've got to have as much of it as you can. While there's still time.
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