The Bog of Blogging That Can Mire Us All
Posted by bloggingauthorsadmin
Or to use a different metaphor, blogging is like breathing underwater. It’s difficult, but can be done, if only in short gasps. Which is pretty much they way mine have been since day one. Or maybe it just seems that way, because the “Comments” I receive through my website are mostly spam, that kind of fractured, exuberant English that after the first thirty or so cause not one upward tick of your Amazon ranking and you know something is definitely up with them. All deleted now, to both cleanse my naïveté and make room for other, more genuine comments. Each of my blogs, eighteen so far, has been like a slab of prime beef mistakenly tossed with the garbage, attracting only maggots, and yet I keep serving them. It’s not all garbage. I have, by other means, attracted the eyes and typed fingers of some very notable authors. How? By using Facebook and receiving, after a post of mine, a reciprocal one. An invasive tool used by people like me, learned, I should credit, from my publicist who taught me how to post on other, more famous writers’ walls. Like a horsefly I get a flick of the tail from someone like Gary Shteyngart, who wrote “Super Sad True Love Story.” A little brush of celebrity received after expressing concern over the structural integrity of his NYC residence post east coast earthquake. “My apartment just gave up and collapsed on me,” he joked on my wall. Okay, not all that, well, earth shaking literarily, but still a reply from the winner of this year’s Wodehouse award. I could site a few more examples, but you get the point of landing on someone’s rump. Which wouldn’t work for my friends, large as some are, posteriorly, men whose more narrow minds think all fiction is fluff, the cotton candy romances, the cookie-cutter mysteries, heart-felt memoirs, the junk food women ingest by the volume. What really matters, they would say, is what’s actually happening, or what can in some practical way provide instructional help about something. An investment, say, an idea obtained from The Wall Street Journal, or a new fly from Field and Stream, or a Taylor Made driver or a swing change from Golf Digest. And when not investing, casting their flies, or hitting their new Burners, they, these WWII babies who’ve grown to late middle age, and would, while they’re still able to control their bodily functions, rather have a root canal than go to a book signing, when on the same night (and most other nights) they can, with their single malt whiskey and not some sweet inexpensive wine, absorb the wisdom of Fox news. These Obama haters wouldn’t give a fig, a crumb, even, for my novel. A story about a Jewish lawyer and a younger woman, a Shakespearean scholar who has a ten-year-old daughter, and their coming close together, overcoming the challenges of their very different careers, ages, and religions. All of which draws, when the novel is mentioned, as it has been by me on the golf course several times, a blank look, as if I’d just asked the name of the course we were playing, where we have for years, the perplexed person turning quickly to another member of our foursome, asking about the distance to the hole, the wind direction.
And so I blog, Mine a minnow in an ocean of minnows, but off they go, week after week, their little gasps whispered to the blogosphere.
An attorney for nearly 30 years, both corporate and private, Ward R. Jones, is the author of After Isaactown and two short stories published in literary journals. The father of three grown children, he lives in Houston with his wife Shelby.
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