For example, keeping this blog regularly updated.
It’s true, I managed to pound out a post a day for a year and so one would think (wouldn’t one?) that writing a post a week (at the least) would be relatively easy. I thought so. And it looks like I thought wrong.
The problem is that when I was writing a post a day, that was a project, an experiment, a dedicated test of both my sticktoitiveness and my imagination. And, after finishing said experiment, I realized that the amount of blog wordage was equivalent to three novels.
There are blogs that I read where the writer is dedicated to giving others advice (especially on the YA blog circuit) or to entertaining or to making themselves a noted expert on a subject or to giving voice to their own thoughts and/or arguments. Frankly, Frank, I’m not interested in doing any of those things. As with my writing, I’m most interested in experimenting, and I long for the days (most evident in My Months In Poland) when my blog was simply an outgrowth of that, each post a foray into a word forest I was uncertain of ever finding my way out of.
Blogging became so regimented in my A Year of Living Bloggily days, and afterwards I tried to keep up. Why? Because people like regularity. They want to know what they’re getting (and what they’re getting themselves into). But I don’t know what you’re getting into. Hell, I don’t know what I’m getting into. Knowing bores me (and if you’re a dedicated reader of this blog, hopefully it bores you, too).
(By the way, listening to a band called Subfocus, their song “Rock It”, and I like.)
(Shit. Now you know. And knowing is boring. BORING!)
So I’m backpedaling on making any sort of regimen for this blog. I’m going to dive into my novel, my poems, my plays, and when I come up for air you might find me here. If you’re here when I do, then say “Hi.”