As a blogger I’m a dismal failure. Aside from the lack of any real writing skills, my main problem is I simply don’t know what to write about. It’s not helped by knowing that I have a microscopically small reading audience; on a good day, I figure four readers. Hardly an incentive to write more blogs.
And yet the topic of my blog came up in my class the other day; of all things the instructor said he had read some of my blogs. I couldn’t have been more shocked--nor skeptical. Did he have me confused with someone else? How did he even find my blog among the thousands--millions?--out there? Unless he had received an e-mail from me, I find it unlikely that he read my blog. Still, it was nice to have it mentioned someplace besides in discussion between me and my cat, Jake.
But I’m still stuck with what to write about. I do not have a particularly interesting life, at least one others might find interesting. I read, I study, I nap, I have coffee every morning at Starbucks, I visit with my small circle of friends, I search out new places in Chicago, I go to as much opera and theater as my budget allows. But I said early on I wasn’t going to make this blog one of reviews about my attendance at performances. What’s left? Beats me.
I have thought about politics. But frankly I am sick to death of politics. I’m not an undecided voter, no one I know is undecided, so there’s little point there. And anyway in a few weeks the political season will come to a end--at least the election version of the political season. And I’m not a scholar of politics; if anyone wants a scintillating discussion of politics there are plenty of bloggers out there who actually know stuff.
So here I am writing a blog about not being able to write a blog. That’s more than a little depressing.
But I’ll muddle onward, trying, so far unsuccessfully, to write a blog a week. I’m open for ideas. No, slitting my wrists is not acceptable.
And yet the topic of my blog came up in my class the other day; of all things the instructor said he had read some of my blogs. I couldn’t have been more shocked--nor skeptical. Did he have me confused with someone else? How did he even find my blog among the thousands--millions?--out there? Unless he had received an e-mail from me, I find it unlikely that he read my blog. Still, it was nice to have it mentioned someplace besides in discussion between me and my cat, Jake.
But I’m still stuck with what to write about. I do not have a particularly interesting life, at least one others might find interesting. I read, I study, I nap, I have coffee every morning at Starbucks, I visit with my small circle of friends, I search out new places in Chicago, I go to as much opera and theater as my budget allows. But I said early on I wasn’t going to make this blog one of reviews about my attendance at performances. What’s left? Beats me.
I have thought about politics. But frankly I am sick to death of politics. I’m not an undecided voter, no one I know is undecided, so there’s little point there. And anyway in a few weeks the political season will come to a end--at least the election version of the political season. And I’m not a scholar of politics; if anyone wants a scintillating discussion of politics there are plenty of bloggers out there who actually know stuff.
So here I am writing a blog about not being able to write a blog. That’s more than a little depressing.
But I’ll muddle onward, trying, so far unsuccessfully, to write a blog a week. I’m open for ideas. No, slitting my wrists is not acceptable.
