Let’s get this straight: I’m not fond of most—most—blogs, and I absolutely, positively, super-cali-fragil-istic-expiali-dociously detest writing my own.
Yet here I am, having to write something I have no interest in writing, and stuck in a quagmire of google analytics and SEO.
Freeze-frame. How did I get here? you might ask.
The goddamn industry, man.
When I was 19, I somehow made it to Nepal. From this trip I brought back something I pin beside my desk without exception: an original 5×10 painting of a shadowy figure trekking across a bridge, through the mountains (the Himalayas, I assume). A mountain peak looms above, the pinnacle, bathed in buttery light. The goal.
Here’s a picture.
I keep this beside my desk because it perfectly sums up what it’s like to write a novel, or to be a writer generally. One, that rickety bridge can give way at any moment. Two, the load is heavy, the journey laborious. Three, the mountain top seems so far away and, in fact, you will probably never reach it. You can get closer, though, always. You persist. You walk. One foot in front of the other, day in and day out, you keep walking.
Point is, becoming not only a competent, but a good writer is a long journey, fraught with mental perils. The last thing you need, especially in this age, is another distraction. Hell, you’ve set out on the journey. You’re in the mountains. All of a sudden, this bird drops a scroll of paper in front of your feet. It says you need to find someone called an agent. They, in turn, will help you find a publisher. But wait, you think. I’m in the middle of nowhere. I’m all alone. Where am I supposed to find this mythical, this fabled creature? This agent?
Another scroll. A website might help, it says. A blog, to show your stuff. A following. They love those things.
Looking to the sky, you curse the Gods and all they stand for. A lifetime of preparation, a first step taken, and finally you embarked on your journey into the mountains. Now, this tiny bird is saying you need to stop all that. So you walk into the nearest mountainside cafe, hook up to their single bar of wifi and start a blog. And you’re writing about this journey you’re on, and people find it so relatable, and they really like that.
But, goddamnit. You’ve stopped walking.
Simply put, to me, a blog feels like a must do, rather than a want to do. And the whole writing thing is a want-to-do thing, not a must-do thing. Or so I thought.
Many bloggers, to me, also appear to be pure profiteers. There are good blogs out there, but there are skeevy, useless ones, too, selling the dream that you, too, can write a novel, if only you attend my new course for a mere $180. And you can trust me, because I’m the author of such esteemed works as How to write a novel in 2 weeks and Vampire Love Explosion, which together have sold over 50,000 copies on Amazon.
Newsflash: there have been better writers than you or me can ever hope to be, and they had no such blogs to speak of. I’ll tell you a secret: all you really need to do to write well is, one, read a lot and, two, write a lot. That’s it. Many blogs are a waste of time.
But the publishing industry says I need a website, and I can’t think what else to put on a writer’s site other than a blog. So here I am. Blogging.
Ok, you say, but the industry, these publishers, are what will allow you to live off your writing, so quit whining.
To this, I say quit whining about my whining. I’ll whine if I want. This is my blog, after all.
Hey, maybe this blog thing isn’t so bad.