It’s only October. I still have three months to write every single day in this blog. Absolutely nothing interesting is happening to me these days. I have nothing exciting to report. So why am I still writing? I think it might be time to give it up. Blogs should be interesting and well-written. They should have cool pictures of cool stuff taken by cool people who are cool. They should not be boring. It’s time to quit.
Here’s the thing. I’m a terrible terrible quitter. I have a bit of a compulsive nature. I can’t give things up. I can’t let them go. I’ve read thousands of pages of Dickens, each one of them torture, just because I said I would. I’ve suffered through a lot of bad books and movies because of my inability to quit. So the likelihood of me leaving the blogosphere before the end of the year is unlikely, unfortunately for you.
I’ve been reading Ruth Hall by Fanny Fern. It’s sort of the American version of a Victorian novel. Same period, similar style, but with a considerable amount of independent spirit thrown in, lest you mistake the characters entirely for British snobs. After a series of tragedies, Ruth supports herself by writing for a number of local newspapers. She quickly gains fame and finally collects her articles in a book and makes her fortune. She discovers a talent in herself that she didn’t know she had, and it saves her family.
I also listened to an interview on Fresh Air in which Terry interviews an author about a book in which a failed rock musician continues to record in secret and creates and elaborate fantasy around his fake band. Terry asks if a person isn’t really good at the art they pursue, should they even continue to pursue it.
Ruth was a naturally excellent writer. I am not. So should I continue to pursue this art? Should I continue to devote my time to something that is of no ultimate consequence? On the one hand, the audience is so small, its effect on others is rather inconsequential. On the other hand, random strangers occasionally stumble across this blog and are exposed to it. Perhaps it’s better to spare the world of my boring life.
I probably won’t. I’ll probably keep writing. Because I said I would. And I can’t quit. It’s not in my nature.