Time and events of the past few days have conspired to have me considering my audience. For what or whom am I writing this blog? For those who have been faithful readers since its inception, you are perhaps the best judge, since most of the time I sit down and start writing before I have made a study of the people who would most enjoy reading whatever it is that I have to say.
In this way, it is not unlike having my own newspaper column, where I attend to those things that are on my mind as they occur, without a solid notion of narrative, or editorial priorities. It dovetails nicely with the idea I had for many years during college: The Cult of Publication. My creative writing degree has netted me the sum total of two published works. The first came when a series of poems I submitted were printed in a magazine called "The train" (memorialized here on "Sensations" magazine's web site). The humorous bit about this job was that it paid in copies of the magazine, that apparently folded before I received my copies. The second time I was able to become part of the literary elite, I had a short piece of mine printed in a collection called "Where the Heart Is - A Celebration of Home." I'm right there on page 85, complete with notes on the author contributed by my lovely wife. What did I get paid for that one? I did get a copy of that one - and the knowledge that every copy sold was raising money for Habitat for Humanity.
Maybe that's why having a blog appeals to me so very much. I don't have to convince a bunch of editors or publishers that what I've got to say is interesting or unique or worthwhile. I just type and click the little orange button down there that says: Publish Post. Okay, I confess, first I do a spell check, because I don't want this to be a complete drain on you - the reader. Somewhere over there in a drawer are a couple of attempted screenplays, and there are dozens of short stories and poems hanging around the edge of my hard drive even as we speak - but for now, we'll stick to the things that I know. Thank you for your kind attention, and now back to our regularly scheduled infotainment.
Why do you suppose Brad Pitt wouldn't have had the cajones to call Jennifer Aniston before the world found out that Angelina was pregnant?