It was brought to my attention that maybe some of you fellow bloggers may want to know why it is I keep blogging; why this shit seems to be worth it.
I started blogging about 2 1/2 years ago out of necessity. Frustrated by what seemed like hundreds of agent rejections, but knowing that I am publishable, I needed a new approach.
So basically, my ego brought me to the blogosphere.
First, my ego brought me to desperate measure. As I pondered how I was going to seduce an agent and fornicate my way to the publishing house, Jenny Baranick announced that she had found an agent.
Damn her. I mean, I was ecstatic for her.
Because Jenny is much, much more benevolent that I'll ever be, instead of hording her good fortune, she shared her path to it. The key to getting oneself noticed was to blog. Mindi, the third of our writing group, already had a website, so now it was time for me to get on the social networking train.
I really, really didn't want to. But, Jenny's benevolence is spiced up with action. When she decides she is going to do something, she does it. Immediately. When she decided that I should start blogging, she meant for me to do it. Immediately.
Oh, the whining; oh, the moaning on that first day. What am I supposed to blog about? I write fiction. Novels. Am I supposed to put up excerpts from my novels? I wasn’t sure I could write about writing; I wasn’t sure I had anything to put out there besides the fictional projections of my demented mind.
Jenny said that my blog would develop its identity over time and to just start writing.
Just start writing? Without a plan? Without a plot outline? I thought she was nuts, but I forged ahead based on her faith in my ability to blog.
And here I am--still blogging. Here I am--still without an agent. But then, a blog post evolved into a "creative nonfiction" piece got published in Foliate Oak Literary Magazine. “Language of Love” would not existing without this damn blog, so ya, it may have finally gotten me published, but not in the way I originally set out to be. Still, when a fellow blogger ask for a bit of backstory to encourage everyone else in my boat, I sat back and really thought about it.
What has blogging done for me?
It has given me the opportunity to experiment
Most of mine have been utter failures. The "fact or fiction" series did not turn out as I hoped; I find it almost impossible to post any kind of fiction, let alone promote my fiction; and any attempt to host a blogfest to build up my followers has been nothing short of nothing.
The experiment that did work? Writing about teaching. Instead of sharing my teaching adventures via oral tradition, I have begun to blog about them. As much as I like being able to make my friends laugh, there's something glorious about being able to make strangers laugh. I may not hear the laughter, but I can see it of "hits" a post gets.
Also, blogging about teaching escapades is therapeutic and has probably taken a critical role in keeping me employed.
Another success would be writing about language; in fact, that's what "Language of Love" (hit the link, yo) is about. I had been writing and teaching long before I began blogging, so I have always had a curiosity and love of words, but writing about them has deepened the relationship. Instead of them just being tools for me to build fiction, they have become spiritual entities I channel.
It has helped me find my voice
Jenny Baranick, creator an author of Missed Periods and Other Grammar Scares, said that “blogging really helped me find my voice.”
Ditto, my friend.
For me, the key has been the "my" in "my voice." I had a voice for my different fictional characters: I knew how to be Corey Malone, Clark Stein, and Brian Little on paper, but I didn't really learn how to be Holly Vance on paper until I began to blog. And even though I am sometimes teacher Holly, cougar Holly, technologically-challenged Holly, each with her own distinct voice, blogging has given me the opportunity to see myself in a new way.
It has redefine my writer persona
I went into blogging a horror and crime thriller novelist. How I was going to produce anything worth a shit in under 500 words baffled me. I tried flash fiction, and those posts never left me feeling satisfied. And they are not amongst the frequently viewed. I have always been funny, but not a humor writer. I have always been open about my life, but never a memoirist. But in the arena of blogging, I had the opportunity to produce a lot of it and get feedback about it.
Much to my chagrin, I have been told by many that I am a better nonfiction writer than a fiction one, so blogging has also given me a bit of an identity crisis.
It reminds me why I write
As writers trying to get published, what agents and publishers think of our writing is critical, but honestly, don’t writers want the praise of other writers? Maybe those of us running in the same blogging circles aren’t any Stephen King, Nora Roberts, Scott Turow, J.R. Tolkien, or JK. R0wlings but that doesn’t make any commentary or praise from a less “successful” writer any less valuable. Especially when that praise comes from other bloggers, who don’t ever have to read a word you write or say jack shit about it, just one or two of those every four to five posts is priceless. It reminds me that I don't write to be rich and famous; I write to be read. I write to entertain and connect--and blogging allows me to do that.
I've learned a few things no related to writing by blogging as well.
I learned that a lot of people hate me: the most read post it the Final Destination post where I create several scenarios in which I die a horrible, violent death. And I am very careful to make sure that my students won't stumble across this blog. Or maybe there's a huge underground cult who worship the Final Destination films and were duped by my title.
I learned that if you try to promote your blog in the public arena of Facebook, every porn site in the universe will "comment" on your blog.
I learned that agents aren't spending hours online, searching the gazillion blogs looking for a new client.
Bummer. Guess I better got back to figuring out how to fornicate my way to the publishing house.