Pity the poor blogger.
We start off so well.
The lucky cyberworld is going to see how bright we are, how talented, how creative.
So we set off on our virgin blog, using just about anything we can, stealing from the best of the others, , hoping we won't get caught--and if we do, so what? It'll result in comments at least.
Ah those superiorities we present, our keen political insight, our best poetry, our way with words.
So up goes the blog, ttiled, perhaps, NOTHIN' LIKE A COOL BREEZE to almost a drumroll.
This is gonna knock 'em dead. You know your literature, you know your music, you know your current events.
And, of course, your teachers have always assured you you were brilliant....But that was way back in grade school, while you were still cute..
A week goes by.
Your post is up, but there is no comment.
Another week: Hm. Must be something wrong with my comment space. Word verification? Are people being kicked off my comments site by that infernal "You may use HTML tags such as..."?
So you put one in yourself. "Been awfully busy this past month so I havent blogged much. My apologies."
Well, some spam came in and that's something.
Finally, some matron from East Jesus, Saskatchewan feels sorry for you so you get a comment.
But she is a Jesus freak. Oh well. What a friend we have in Jesus. A comment is a comment.
Then she gets her entire quilting bee in on the action and the shut-ins and the little old ladies are commenting aplenty.
You are finally a real blog, with real commentators.
But somewhere down the line something happens.
You have run out of blog material. You have reprinted that last poem, the last short story draft, the last postcard you got from someone--you are runnning out of gas.
Things the neighbour said.
Things the pharmacist said
Afternoon TV show that got you thinking.
You are gasping for air.
Thoughts while cutting your grass.
Thoughts from the days when you were a teenager and someone was cutting your grass.
Secret thoughts of resentment over your partner, your spouse, your dog.
Trying to be funny...You can hear yourself trying to be funny, and so can they.
Sort of sitting on the toilet seat and grunting. This is funny?
Now is the time to pay for all that pumping yourself up with the holy trinity of alcohol, cigaretts, booze-- for all those times you fished in forbidden streams, Those whirligig ideas.
Torturing words, forcing them till they protest--all those malapropisms. "This is the Canadian Broadcorping Castration." (Oops!)
Running out of gas.
Downstairs, they are waiting for you.
"Supper," from the wife
From the son, "Supper Daddy."
But here you are stuck in the attic. Blank screen syndrome.
The thought of eating is like having someone poke you in the eye.
Finally, you make it downstairs.
Wifey is making nice. The kids are bright and beautiful.
But you have a mental block. You can't get past "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party."
Morose son-of-a-gun at the dinner table.
You rise from the table only to trip over the dog. "Son of a bitch!" You pick up the dog by the scruff, poor family whipping boy. The dog will have none of it. "You pick me up like that again motherf*cker, I'm going to bite you."
Threatened now by one's wife, one's children, one's dog.
My world and welcome to it.
Up the stairs again. An idea seems to snake its way past the cigarettes and the coffee.
You begin to write. "For the past ten years (after a decade of paganism) I have been..."(Oops.
The thought will not complete).
You have been at this machine too long. You need a break.
The family hears you galumping down the stairs. There are creaks.( Mental note to self: You will have to fix those risers. Somebody's going to kill herself going up those noisy, rickety bastards one day).
Off to the coffee shop at the end of the street.
One coffee, two.
The first inkling of a good idea. Oh the originality of it! "How to get over mental blocks."
Yep, that's it. Gotta eat the problem.
Back past the family, who are convinced you have gone mad, up three stairs at a time, up to the computer.
The outing and the exercise seems to have triggered something.
"Martha, I am a firehose of words. I can write again!"
Dead silence from downstaris. The as*hole has lost his marbles.
Yet, you are suddenly starting to write, not just words and sentences--really write.
"The cultural-philosophical attitude known as nihilism vanished just after the Russian revolution..."
It must have been the food.
Yes, it was definitely the food.
Let no active blogger or essay writer go without supper!
No food, no good.