To blog, or not to blog, that is the burr up my ass.
Aphorism of the Day: The best thing any asshole can do is to regularly change their underwear.
Yesterday was the release date for NHL 11 – so hockey night with my buddies was a little more debauched than usual. I kicked some major ass, which means my review for the newest version of the world’s best video game is 10 out of 1o.
I have to admit, I’m still on the fence when it comes to this blogging thing. I had a long talk with my agent yesterday, who wants me to talk about the books much more, and my crazy ass opinions much less. Apparently people find them alienating. People treasure few things more than their sense of intellectual and moral superiority, and because I think these stand high among the conceits that will cut our collective throat, I find it impossible not to rail against them. So it seems to be a recipe doomed for failure. Few things are as ‘clear’ to an individual as the superiority of their cognitive and moral insight. Throughout their entire lives, everywhere they turn, they find more and more confirmation of how others ‘just don’t get it.’
Maybe you actually like this blog. Maybe you’ve succumbed to the consensus fallacy and think that most everyone likes this blog. But I’ve had too many lukewarm conversations with too many lukewarm observations about this thing (‘lukewarm,’ in the world of ‘tell-me-what-you-really-think’ appraisal is simply code for condemnation) not to think the opposite is the case. My guess is that the vast majority of people who come to Three Pound Brain find themselves dissappointed at best: too much author, not enough book.
Add to that, all this adolescent self-doubt…
What’s worse, I really don’t have any institutional home, no tribe that I can call my own. I keenly remember what it felt like, belonging to the academic world, that sense of moral and intellectual superiority enjoyed on a collective level. I could retreat back to that mindset, I suppose, poo-poo all those unwashed masses the institution has managed to alienate, all those poor souls toiling away in consumer delusion. I suppose I could pretend that I really did belong to a special tribe, rather than one more self-serving, self-congratulatory institution.
But those days are irretrievably lost. No tribe is special. We all play the same stupid games all the time. And we all think it’s the other guy who is pedestrian. For better or worse, I’ve convinced myself that this is a fact.
So, it really could be the case that this little experiment of mine is in fact doing more harm than good to my marginal career. The sustaining illusion of most all midlist writers is that somehow, someway, they will ‘break out,’ and build a castle next to Dan Brown somewhere in New Hampshire. The sad fact is that, aside from a few rare exceptions, the batteries on our little bullhorns slowly die, and we fade back into the obscurity of a billion piping voices – wondering what we could have done different, finding ways to blame the industry that had to have let us down.
I’ve looked at this gig as a crapshoot right from the very beginning, and all the self-promotional work I’ve done as nothing more than covering my odds on the cultural craps table…
And as much a I love ranting, I’m beginning to worry that this blog thing is actually dropping money on a ‘hard way.’
Another sucker bet.
Meanwhile, there’s the question of time and commitment.