I came home this evening from a volunteer training session and immediately checked my email in the hope that I’d find at least one wee comment on yesterday’s post. But no! Not a single comment – and that despite the fact that poor Petrichor here nearly left the realm of mortals yesterday because of a careless driver!
Come on, people! Comment, goddamn you! I’m not just writing this blog for the good of my health, you know…well, OK, so actually I am….but still! Show me some love!
Yesterday I finished the NaBloPoMo September challenge (i.e. blogging every day for a month), and yet not a tiny word of congratulations from anybody? No? Sigh. Oh, what an underappreciaed, unloved blogger I am.
I do worry sometimes about having lost a bit of my mojo over at this blog. I worry that getting married, and no longer having quite the same need to seek solace in the blogosphere, has made me a bad writer. I also worry that writing every day with a time constraint (I try to take no longer than one hour for each post) has made my writing duller, too. Oh, but what if it has?! I can’t go through life being miserable, depressed and single just so more people comment on my blog. I really like what Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way, has to say about the romantic myth of suffering for your art:
“Art isn’t really born from pain – rather it’s just that the pain focuses our attention on the details”
I will leave you with that thought while I go off to drown the sorrow of your terrible neglect in red wine and an episode of my beloved “Deadwood”. Goodnight, you miserable non-commenting bastards.