I bet you are thinking I have meant to say “Nothing to write home about.” You’d be wrong. I have said what I meant to say, that I really have nothing to write about. This is after 16 hours of reading blogs written by other…people…you other guys. I’m going to call you those people only because my Mother once said I’d burn in hell if I weren’t nice to people I didn’t know. You successful writers know who you are. Mother was never right about much of anything but I’d hate to think that at her age she’d somehow hit a lucky streak of informed righteousness.
Everyone, and I’m again talking about and to those people… who seem to be better informed than me. You write clever things. Sound smart. Are sometimes funny and even make me laugh. I’m so envious of your humorous anecdotes and writing skills. I try not to laugh so hold it down to a wide smile. A lot of the time not laughing but wide-smiling hurts my face because there are a lot of you good writers floating around in coffee cafes looking for inspiration and probably, a safe guess here, the loos.
Whatever is working for you is not working for me.
My Reader says I shouldn’t worry.
A lot My Reader knows. An example of true-blue success is if one has more than two hundred and forty-three other clever and informed, advice giving people following your every move and mood via the written word. Such a gift. Such resoluteness and tenacity it must take to keep all two hundred and forty-three others entertained. Personally, I’m more than happy with the three subscribers I have earned, and earned the hard way. My children and My Reader have asked me not to name names.
All My Reader does is give advice which for some…those people again…seems to be quite…quite…adviceful. Giving advice doesn’t work for me. I know because I tried it once. Maybe twice. When they were young my children became my practice “advice dummies”… similar to the crash dummies the Car People invented to show us drivers how to crash safely. But this advice dummy application was different. Sort of. The upshot was my children no longer take anything from me, but especially they do not take advice from me. During many of my profound advice giving moments they would plead with me to Get. To. The. Point. Mom. Before. I. Die. Please.
They do, however, take money.
It is only eleven, almost twelve days into 2012 and I’m beginning to feel the pain and pressure of early writing failure.
My Reader might say that I haven’t wasted any time.
But then again My Reader might not.
I would emphasize the not…