Friday, February 21, 2014

A Note

To readers who have suggested that I should write a book or write more frequently, thank you for the interest. And for those of you who come across this blog and don't realize, there are currently more than 100 posts overall covering a span of a few years. The blog archive exists on the right side of the screen through which one can navigate to older posts.
For me, writing can be anxiety-inducing, gut-wrenching, challenging and sometimes cathartic. The subject matters I touch upon sometimes dredge up emotions that I often would rather keep compartmentalized. As with many endeavors, I find getting started to be one of the more challenging aspects. And I want what I write to be worthwhile, and I want to maintain quality. The inspiration doesn't always arise. I also question whether what I have to say contains any value. That self-doubt creeping in on me. But apparently the subjects upon which I touch do hold value for at least some people, and that's something.
I have a Twitter account but don't post. I don't often consider such relatively short declarations to be worthwhile: "Saw 'Iron Man 3.' It sucked." Who cares? But when presented with an opportunity to elaborate with some insight, perhaps therein lies value, or at least mildly entertaining content.
Some writers take years between books. And those who don't generally involve the mainstream, less sophisticated types. I don't begrudge people reading that stuff. Who am I to judge? And sometimes, albeit infrequently, I read those kinds of books myself because they can be entertaining. But then I find the prose nauseating and return to books about the history of the American West or the Civil War or the Revolutionary War. Or guys like Ivan Doig or Tom McGuane or Cormac McCarthy. I recently read "The Count of Monte Cristo," since that book has endured and is a "classic." I did find the story entertaining, but the writing disappointed me. Maybe something got lost in the translation, but apparently, even in its day, the book wasn't considered weighty, like "Les Miserables."
"The Count of Monte Cristo" started out as a serialization in a French newspaper, according to the foreword of the version I read. Sometimes writers got paid by the word or the line or whatever, so they had incentive to pad their works. Hence, a "condensed" 600-page book with small print. That ain't no Hemingway.
So much clutter exists in today's information-technology-saturated world, and I have done nothing to promote myself. I generally don't tag my posts with keywords that will get Google hits (Pam Anderson nude). The thought of it brings me unease. So I figured I would rely on word of mouth, meaning that if someone found this blog and read something they considered worthwhile, then they could pass that along. Some days the hits on this blog spike, other days next to nothing. Maybe that's a function of not writing frequently enough, but sometimes I have nothing worthwhile to say, or I'm just too blue to summon the energy, or I have an idea that has been germinating for weeks or months that I haven't quite pulled completely together in my head. I get solicitations from people asking to have my blog on their websites, which are compilations of blogs or whatever, and they say I'd get thousands more hits. I also receive solicitations to write about depression for websites.
First of all, I consider my blog to consist of much more than a vehicle to provide insight into depression. Am I a depression expert? I write about what I see through my prism, and if someone can relate to that, then that can be gratifying. But I also write about family and life as I see it in general. And about how wondrous precocious kids can be. And the agony of seeing them struggle. And the guilt associated with not being a good enough person or parent. Or just about how "Iron Man 3" sucked and Robert Downey Jr. owes me money for the price of admission. Or about how I'm sick of goose shit or people texting while driving. Or religion. So, that said, I'm going to start working on another post, the rudiments of which have been chipping away at the periphery of my mind for weeks, or months, or perhaps years.