It seems to me these days professionals, especially writing professionals, lack credibility unless they have a blog to point to. That statement's for the pragmatists. I'm not one of those. In a previous professional life, I blogged professionally (or was an internet journalist, I insisted), and blogged about professionals blogging, and interviewed blogging professionals who blogged about professional blogging--the Twitter guys? I was talking to them about their abstract thingy long before it was used to stage revolutions--even tinkered with my own blog for a little while even though I did it wrong.
I'm still going to do it wrong, only this time on purpose. The golden rule for blogging is go niche. Find some special minutia and wring its textual neck. I can't think of a thing I'd like to write about all the time. Pretty sure that's why it took me seven years to get out of college. I'm interested in everything, but only for a little while. So as far as niche content producers, I'm not one of those, either. I write about whatever's on my mind, and that can change by the minute. It's not ADD. It's obsession with everything.
Well, except NASCAR.
Unless there's some wicked and fiery twisted metal near-deathness in it.
So this blog's about everything, and Google's search spider will just have to deal with it. As will readers as I transition from quantum physics to literature to zen-beat-Bohemians to psychobiology to why I stopped being a Republican. I haven't blogged for a long time because I couldn't decide on a niche, and maybe because after four straight years of a pump-and-post-online-word-monkey existence, I think I was burned out.
Why now? Pretty simple. I like attention and I don't take rejection well. I see the same behavior in my two-year-old daughter. My hunch is her genetics mean she'll never get over that. I've been fielding rejection from the finest won't-give-me-the-time-of-day publications for a solid year now, and quite frankly I'm tired of it. I'm not silly or pretentious or self-aggrandizing enough to say they were wrong. I probably deserved their inattention. It's the whole process that bugs me, especially in the 21st century. I write something. I send it off and hang back in the vain vapors of hope as if always asking some archaic, literary gatekeeper for approval and validation and career-boosting. This is not something I'd do normally. I don't mow the grass and wait for the neighbors to send me a thumbs up. I don't worry that I'm standing wrong. I don't worry if I sing a Karaoke song badly. I don't care if some butt-riding fool on the interstate flips me off. I don't talk and wait for somebody to tell me whether that was worth saying again to other people. And I never kiss anyone's butt.
So I'm just going to blog, put it out there myself, and hope only some people read it and relate. I'll keep trying the old-fashioned way, too, but if I manage to get in that club I'll likely burn my membership badge on receipt.