How Is a Blog Like a Baby? It Must Be Fed! It has been about 18 months since I started this blog. For at least a year before, I had said, mostly to my son, I want to start a blog. At least a year or two before that, I had "registered" my "domain," not because I needed another "domain" (I have a perfectly good house in the piney woods) but because it seemed the thing to do. (That's also the reason I have a "smart phone" that is so smart I don't know how to use most of the gadgets it purports to offer me.) Still, because I call myself a writer, it seemed that I should have a blog. I liken writing a blog to the years I worked for suburban newspapers and was required to write a sometimes-column for the front page of the paper. My boss wanted a column every day, and, talented man and thinker that he was, he probably could have produced a column every day. However, I did not possess either the talent or original thoughts in sufficient quantity that I could produce a column a day. So, mostly I wrote a column when I could.
So it has been with this blog. During my mother's illness it was easy to find an excuse not to write. Now, I have to face the obvious: I just haven't developed material for a blog more frequently than a few times a month, or less. On the other hand, I know that I have only a few readers, so perhaps my lame contributions aren't missed that much. I do appreciate the comments I have received about some of my postings. I view the blog as something of an ego trip since, unlike Ree Drummond, the Pioneer Woman cook on TV, or Julie Whatshername, who wrote a blog and subsequent book about Julia Childs' French cooking recipes, I have no running topics to fascinate my readers and gain new ones regularly.
If you're thinking, "Stop whining. Nobody is requiring you to write a blog," you are absolutely right. Nobody except myself. I've said it before: A writer must write. I learned that early. (I spent the summer between my junior and senior year in high school laboriously writing a novel on an old Underwood typewriter. Need I say "manual"? Only one other person saw it, and I destroyed it before I left for college. It was probably a hundred pages or more. I had written and written and never figured out where the story was going. Later, I realized the answer was, "Nowhere.")
It's also nice to have at least one other reader for anything I write, but, unlike the tree that falls silently in the forest if there is no one to hear it fall, the written word, though it may be relegated to a dark closet for a thousand years, has at least a chance of being seen sometime. I'm not sure how legible it would be after a thousand years. Paper and inkjet ink probably do not have the staying power of papyrus buried in a stone jar in a dark cave in the mountains of the Holy Land.
The cup of coffee in the photo still looks inviting, and I'd love to have you over. I'm sure we could find plenty to talk about, and I'd even vacuum the floor if you gave me enough notice.