We write for ourselves. And we don’t.

In writing a book, that dichotomy works itself out. The act of writing for self and also for the reader shares head-space with the life the characters claim for themselves.

Writing a blog. That’s an altogether different thing.

A blog—especially one with a subject as arcane as this one—is a direct line from inside the writer’s head to those who read it. The subject matter is, of necessity, very personal, very intimate.

No surprise then, that the receiving of the daily work is subject to every neurosis and insecurity the writer can muster. Writing a blog like this is often accompanied by a set of emotions equivalent to those of a five-year-old standing in a corner, waving a frantic hand for attention. And, in blogworld, this particular corner exists in a room as huge as Cyberspace.

Stat numbers are tricky things. They inform and they depress. They energize and enervate in equal measure. High-stat days are exciting: The knowledge that you have connected with friends new and old who are interested in how you think and how you express it. That intimacy is alive; half of a fascinating and elating conversation that you don’t want to end. You want to thank everybody, hug everybody. You want to understand the inner workings of their brains; the turns of their emotions.

Low-stat days make you want to run your own head over with your car.

As my friend Blake laments on the subject of sluggish Facebook exchanges (and I paraphrase), “where the hell are you?” He, at least, has the ego strength not to think the fault is his.

Will the blog continue? I expect so. It’s a way to share aloud my worshipful adoration of the subject that keeps me going in this tough world. Even if, on my more self-pitying days, I feel as if my arm, waving so frantically from the corner, is getting just a little tired.

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