The quiet and permanence of the printed word.

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Before I was a writer, I had the measure of blogs, or thought so:  blogs are for self publicists, whether or not they have something other than themselves they wish to promote.  That I would have to publicise my first (only) book myself came as a surprise just a few months short of the publication date.  All the creative writing courses in the world never mentioned that glitch.  The writing, the finding a publisher, a mere nothing compared to the lengths required to sell the finished article.

Jonathan Franzen has been in the news recently, ( new book out, I guess,)  speaking of ghastly self publicising , ‘yakking and tweeting and bragging’ as ‘intolerably shallow forms of social engagement.’ He doesn’t mention the necessity for many new writers  to promote their work themselves. Obviously less well connected, less gifted, than he is, it is a struggle to make a name/find readers to whom we are not related.

Since starting to blog, a trap, that I have almost willingly fallen into, more time is spent blogging than writing, creating not writer’s block, but writer’s blog:  a time gobbler into which vast tracks of time, truly hideous amounts, disappear.

Then there are comments from other blogs, tantamount to a cheery little wave, ‘over here, I’m over here.’ from complete strangers, aka potential readers.  Keeping abreast of ‘The Greats’ (JF?) comments is bad enough, never mind actually reading their work.

I swear, one day, my footprints will lead to dense, internet wilderness and not come out the other side. No trace will ever be found, as if I have disappeared into the ether.

Then there is the garden – but that is a different wilderness.

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