It’s been awhile since I last wrote anything in this humble little blog of mine.
Now before you accuse me of humble-blogging, I’ll just go ahead and admit up front that I haven’t really had anything to write about. Even my latest Alistair and Alexis story was as slick a piece of refurbishment as ever graced a recycling bin.
But a writer must do what a writer must, up to and including plagiarizing his own work.
When someone decides to become a writer, the first thing they must do is put their pride high up on a shelf in a cardboard box that has scrawled upon its side in Sharpie the words, “Miscellaneous Kitchen Stuff“.
The days when writers could be proud are long since past (or passed). I know you may find this hard to believe, but there was once a time, long, long ago, when a writer could actually make a living by writing. People eagerly snapped up magazines and newspapers and books by writers and were willing to pay good money for them and talk about them over the water cooler the next day.
But those were simpler times.
Now, by some estimates, a full 80% or 90% of the population are writers. The good news, is that there is a myriad (or perhaps a plethora) of new venues and outlets to post and share their work.
The bad news is that there are so many venues and outlets, and writers to fill them, that no one can possibly read them all.
And so we don’t.
Who has that kind of time? We’re doing good just to get the dishwasher unloaded and the clothes folded and put away and the cat barf cleaned up out of the carpet. Surely we cannot be expected to read on top of all that? We are only human after all. And that cat barf is not going to clean itself up.
[Note to self for future million-dollar idea: self-cleaning cat barf.]
And you think reading a million posts a day is hard! Try wringing a page of words out of the insipidity and vapidity that make up a typical modern life. There is more blood in a turnip.
Fun fact: Sappho, a Greek poet from the seventh century BC, called one of her paramours Gongýla, which means”turnip”.
I can’t imagine that even a paramour would think that was a term of endearment.
But … hey … at least she didn’t have to try to squeeze a blog post out of it.