OK. So I started this blog with an eye to raising my internet profile, and to perhaps land some glancing blows on the literary establishment, and our bullshit just-believe-in-yourself (even-though-you-are-hardwired-to-dupe-yourself) world.
So what do I do? I check in on a regular basis. Post on a regular basis.
And tell absolutely no one that I’m blogging.
I am quite literally writing to myself. And even now, in the midst of this confession I can feel the phobic loathing rising within, the knowing-what-I-need-to-do-but-I’ll-be-damned-if-I-do-it feeling.
When I stand in front of crowds–even huge ones–my overriding desire is to argue and shock and unsettle. My whole life, I’ve had this perverse desire to prick bubbles wherever I go, and to make the babies blowing them cry-cry-cry.
But when it comes to the web? What is my problem?
It’s a strange thing being a writer. It’s out and out weird browsing the web and finding hundreds upon hundreds of people talking about you and your work. Flattering at times. Puzzling and infuriating at others. You feel helpless, in a sense, because you want to say, hey, I right here, you know. But you can’t, because you just end up weirding everyone out when you do, as well as dissolving whatever gravitas you might possess. You become just another joker when you intervene.
I thought this blog would provide a happy medium, a way to intervene while remaining aloof. And instead I actually end up sighing in relief everytime I see the big fat zero on my stats page.
Blogic dictates that I be dismayed. And yet here I am, alone in the world’s most crowded room, and so very happy!