I'm supposed to blog more often than this, you know
When I started blogging (so long ago now, that I don't even remember what I wrote on that first blog) I started it so that I could write things down that I wanted to remember. I type way faster than I write most of the time, and I don't get cramped up fingers nearly as quickly.
However, once I discovered that there were other blogs out there I changed my tune. I wanted readers, I wanted to be a famous blogger. And I thought, naively that it wasn't going to take any work to get there.
Silly, Di. Silly, silly me. I thought that by reading other blogs and making a few comments here and there, I'd be discovered and would rocket through the atmosphere to become a household name.
Boy, was I wrong.
Then again, I used to think that there were tiny little people that lived in my dad's stereo speakers and they knew how to play every song, ever.
Blogging takes work. It's something you do for yourself with the vague hope that someone might read it. It's your voice that you push into the world in the hope that someone finds you, and understands where you come from and maybe, just maybe, if you are really lucky, they reach back to you.
I'm not sure why I'm telling you this - because all 14 of you, regular readers are people that are related to me (Hi Dad! Hi Uncle Tony!) or are friends that I know in person. And yes, there are a few blogworld friends that I've made.
For the most part, I'm happy about that. I realized not terribly long ago that I'm probably never going to be a famous novelist. I'm never going to have an essay published in the New Yorker either. But I can write things here, and remember my kids in the years to come. Remember the things we do together and know that maybe someone smiled because of a story I told. Or not. It's not my job to force you to like me. You will or you won't.
But I'll still be here writing it down.
However, once I discovered that there were other blogs out there I changed my tune. I wanted readers, I wanted to be a famous blogger. And I thought, naively that it wasn't going to take any work to get there.
Silly, Di. Silly, silly me. I thought that by reading other blogs and making a few comments here and there, I'd be discovered and would rocket through the atmosphere to become a household name.
Boy, was I wrong.
Then again, I used to think that there were tiny little people that lived in my dad's stereo speakers and they knew how to play every song, ever.
Blogging takes work. It's something you do for yourself with the vague hope that someone might read it. It's your voice that you push into the world in the hope that someone finds you, and understands where you come from and maybe, just maybe, if you are really lucky, they reach back to you.
I'm not sure why I'm telling you this - because all 14 of you, regular readers are people that are related to me (Hi Dad! Hi Uncle Tony!) or are friends that I know in person. And yes, there are a few blogworld friends that I've made.
For the most part, I'm happy about that. I realized not terribly long ago that I'm probably never going to be a famous novelist. I'm never going to have an essay published in the New Yorker either. But I can write things here, and remember my kids in the years to come. Remember the things we do together and know that maybe someone smiled because of a story I told. Or not. It's not my job to force you to like me. You will or you won't.
But I'll still be here writing it down.
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