Oy-yoy, what some will doto get a little attention on Open Salon. I’m not one for baring my soul online. But I do have a thing or two to get off my chest, titless wonder that I am.
Proceeding at my own risk:
First, many thanks to Caitlin Kelly for her Open Call to a BlogSturm und Drangwith her provocative submission,15 Reasons I Don’t Read Most Blogs. Clueless, I read her post on Saturday morning, thinking how fine and generous a piece. Here she was, (or so I thought) a writer-to-writer offering her insight into her work and sharing her sensibility as a reader. I took her words as helpful advice. Plausible reasons why she won’t be reading my sorry-ass blog any time soon. Nothing to get into a lather about (albeit bad form, ending a sentence with a preposition). Always room for improvement, blah, blah, bloggity-blog.
Right? Write. Write.
But (i-know, i-know, you don’t start a sentence with but) but really, how about that dust-up over Caitlin’s post? Wasn’t that the best? Such snarky, cathartic fun. Better than Saturday Night Live, bigger than the Biggest Loser, more ruthless thanSurvivor, and scarier than American Idol. Is it possible to get voted off this show? Can I possibly lose my password and my OS identity? Just wondering.
I joined Open Salon just over two months ago, with the expectation to be challenged. But I had no idea I’d be so entertained. I have a blog of my own, but it moves at a turtle’s pace on Blogger. On Open Salon it’s post or perish in our own little Now-or-Neverland. All blog,all the time. Bring it on. Blogging in the fast lane, here’s an audience of natural-born serial killer readers and writers. Blogging our guts out.
Such color and style! (i-know, i-know, use exclamation points sparingly) . We’ve got writers of all stripes and birdsof all feathers. We havemonkeys in the trees. Reigning dogs and cats, pfffft! (Oh,you know who you are.) We are home of the brave: we are writers of fighting words, like zumalicious, biting and clawing our way to essential truths. We have good natured cranks and cursers. We have dueling identities and dual personae. (I’m so excited to know this and now wonder who’s who and to whom.) We have good souls, artistsandpoets, hot shot photographers and wickedly goodcooks. And then of course, there’s the petting zoo, the huggers and kissers. If you can win their hearts and minds, more power to you. If not, tomorrow’s another day, another post. (And who says youcan’t start and end a sentence with and?)
There are those who say there’s no forum quite like this site. I would like to see our stats. Exactly what are our numbers, how many bloggers are we in our collective word co-op? Who cares, who’s watching, who’s tipping, and what about me, me, me?
What troubles me on Open Salon is not the company. I love the company I keep here. What I find disturbing is my addiction to this site. Like an itch I have to scratch. I’m obsessed. Possessed. Like an adolescent girl, lost in her own reflection, constantly checking the mirror on a bad hair day. What is this behavior? What keeps me up at night? Who is this twitchy, needy person I’ve become, checking email and online signs of life with such compulsion, watching and stirring the pot to see if it bubbles, counting ratings and comments, with an insatiable desire to please. Is this not unseemly, a wanton use of precious time?
So I ask myself -- and not you (so please don’t comment) -- exactly what am I doing here, planted in front of a screen? “Go outside and play,” the mother-in-me scolds. Why not put the same effort into reading real books, writing that no-novel in my drawer. Or learning the banjo, tap dancing, cooking, biking, doing anything but this. Why not go to my day job and leave my online self to the devil’s work? This blogging life, living on a virtual island in my head with all of you is... killing me crazy.
Okay folks, you’ve heard it and seen it here, and that’s about as bare naked as I’m about to get online. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to put on some clothes and a smile. And go back to work.
And thanks for gawking by.
(Image source: not mine, but a girl can always hope. Photo in my files, stolen somewhere from the Internet),