Wherein I seek a purpose for blogging…
“You must blog,” They say…that ever and all-powerful ubiquitous, anonymous They who see all and know all and say all. “A writer must blog to attract readers,” They say.
And yet, of what shall I blog, say I?
“Blog about your life,” They say. My life? Who’s interested in my life other than me? Come on now, if I were all that interesting, I wouldn’t be writing fiction, would I?
“Blog about writing,” They say. What, who, me? With two novels under my belt, I still feel as though I’m learning my craft. What pearls of wisdom do I have to offer besides, “Don’t do what I do”? And nobody, including me, wants to hear my whining about how I’m stuck on chapter 6, and can’t figure out how to get my characters out of the literary hell hole that I’ve put them in.
They begin to grow exasperated with me. “You’re just being difficult,” They say. “You know you must blog.”
I whimper pathetically. “But I don’t wanna blog. I don’t know how to blog. I have nothing to blog about.” I reach for the bag of Lindt dark chocolate truffles to console myself.
They throw Their hands up in exasperation. “Blog about something you know,” They say. “We always say, ‘Write what you know,’ don’t We?”
So They do.
“You know history, don’t you?” They say.
“Well, yes, kind of. But where to begin?”
“We always say, ‘Start at the beginning,’” They say, as, indeed, They always do.
“That’s not very helpful,” I say.
They say, “God helps those who help Themselves,” as They help Themselves to my chocolate. “What do you like about history?” They say, though with Their mouths full of truffles it sounds more like “Wha-oo-oo-li—stree?”
“I don’t know. It’s just wicked cool,” I say.
“What’s wicked cool?” They ask.
“I dunno. Just stuff. You know, stuff,” I say.
Stuff, I think…History stuff…Cool history stuff…Wicked cool history stuff.
“Eureka!” I say.
“We do not. We took a shower this morning,” They say.
Guess They don’t know everything after all.