It’s 10:30pm on 26 January 2005. And I have birthed a blog.
Blirthed a bog?
I intend this to be a way of writing down thoughts. Ironic is probably not the right word (and people get so touchy about defining it after Alanis had that hit song), so perhaps the word is “problematic”: that, although I am a writer, who has published widely and because of this, feel comfortable and confident to call myself as such, I write little.
Oh, to be a disciplined writer. Was it Leonard Cohen who wrote a few hours each morning just to keep the parts of his brain involved in his literary practice shiny and sharp? How about my writer friends – M… who is polishing up a 2nd novel, and on his way to a third, after a published 1st novel and a collection of short stories (or two? he’s awfully prolific). G… has a number of novels under his belt I think. I know they may be exceptions to the rule, but still, they are examples. Examples I would like to follow.
Having become a writer, people always ask me what I am writing and if a book is coming out soon. Since (finally) there is a book on the horizon, I tell them that yes, a book is coming soon, and I’ve been editing it, and will be involved in this process of getting it out to the world. And that is true: I expect to be busy with promotion, and writing it up on my webpage, and doing a launch. But it also allows me to hide from the other question, to which the answer is: no, I’m not writing. I write poems here and there (which I should probably count as writing but since they are so little read or respected by people, I tend not to). I can’t remember the last short story I wrote. I write essays when asked for them. I haven’t written any erotica lately, because all of it went into this book coming out.
I guess what I really want to be saying is: yes, I’m writing a novel, and have it plotted out, and I intend it to be both critically and commercially successful.
But instead, I think I’ll be saying: yes, I’m writing. A blog. I’m doing it for myself and seeing what turns out.