A Year in Blogging (or Not)

I could spin some smooth and nostalgic prose about how this time of year is perfect for gazing back on those things we have accomplished and looking ahead toward the year before us, and — blah, blah, blech. You get the point. I won’t do that. But since I have been gone for almost exactly a year, and it is practically the New Year, I suppose I must do a little filling-in on what personal details I neglected to share with the internet in 2007. And so, without further ado…

Here’s what I haven’t blogged about, in (more or less) chronological order:

  • Rafting the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon with my mom. In July. For a week. During record-breaking temperatures.
  • Finishing up a year of night school classes, further securing my place as the second-most over-educated person in my family
  • Ten days along the South Carolina and Georgia coast with the in-laws. In August. During record-breaking temperatures. (As you can see, I’m a master of timing.)
  • My trip to Reno just before Halloween. Costumed hoards of people roamed the crowded thoroughfares of Circus Circus, sporting disguises reminiscent of swing dancers, vampires, and clowns, to name a few. I thought it was Reno. Turns out it was Halloween. I think.
  • My new car. It’s purdy. And it even has an outlet so that I can charge my laptop, make coffee, or toast a bagel while driving. Very handy.
  • My brother’s lovely wedding to his lovely wife in a lovely setting.
  • My new iPod, and the day when it was stolen — and then not.
  • Losing twenty pounds. Then gaining five of them back, just in time for a new New Year’s resolution. Three cheers for holiday eating…

Here’s what I have blogged about:

  • Santa is a stalker
  • Snot
  • My cat
  • The day an evil company stole my blogs

As you can see, my priorities are on the right track.

Hijacked!

It’s been a year since I’ve blogged new content with anything resembling regularity. At that time I was happily ensconced in another domain, running both a photoblog (Photoplay) and a regular blog (Novelist in Training). I had commenters and archives and an exhaustive blogroll. I had templates to tweak any time I couldn’t think of what to write next (which was entirely too often).

Not that all was perfect. I’d taken on a new job and begun taking two night classes each week, so things were hectic. My posting rate slowed. I committed mass absenteeism from all the blogs I used to frequent. And then one day I mustered up the words for a post, only to discover that my host — and my domain right along with it — had been sold out from under me. No warning. No chance to inform my readers, set up site redirections, double-check my backups, take a snapshot of the template, or find a new host. My blogs, along with all the contents, feeds, and information on all my commenters, had been hijacked even as I tried to think of what to write about next.

I’d like to say I took it calmly, and at first I really did. But soon the emotions crowded in: anger at the violation of having my sites yanked out from under me without warning, frustration and despair at the prospect of having to begin all over again, sadness over the posts and comments that had vanished and, most of all, embarrassment that subscribers and visitors to my site would be confronted with ads instead of blog posts. They would think I’d abandoned them, given up without a word. The thought made me cringe.

In the ensuing year many of those who had linked to my sites discovered my abrupt departure and removed the links. Some bloggers have gained a wide audience and are now out of my league, while others have folded. Many, I’m sure, have forgotten me — after all, what’s one more blog, especially from one who proved to be so unreliable (even if unintentionally so)?

But I’ve had this time to recover, to miss blogging enough to make it worth the tedium of setting up a brand new site and re-building everything from scratch. And so I am back. My blog backups, which I had made so religiously, were corrupted (yet more fuel to feed all that anger and despair), but I was able to salvage some of the posts nonetheless. Lest they be lost in the abyss forever, I will be integrating those old posts with new as I build this site, selecting only what I feel are the best and/or most appropriate at the time. Most of the entries (such as this one) will be new.

With time, I hope that those who were hurt by my sudden disappearance will trust me again and begin to visit this new blog; I know that I will be visiting their sites again. I will take it slowly, deliberately, but with any luck this time I will be in it for the long haul.

Yes, it really is good to be back, even on a nearly-blank blog with (as of this point) no readers. And so I will send this post out into the wilds and continue to build anew. Wish me luck, gentle reader.

Puzzled

I just can’t figure out why today’s book revisions are taking so long. Anyone have any ideas? Maybe I’m low on sleep. Or on chocolate. Then again, it could be the weather. Yeah, the weather. That must be it…

Meddling Cat II

Meddling Cat

(Yes, I do freely admit that taking pictures of the meddlesome beast and then posting them on the internet probably doesn’t help my already-hampered efficiency. However, it’s much more fun than tossing The Basil into a room, closing the door on his face, ignoring him until he quits howling for attention, and getting back to work.)

Stalker Claus is Comin’ to Town

Not to dwell on Christmas, but I have to confess that the song “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town” really creeps me out. As the lyrics to this cheerful tune unwittingly reveal, Santa has some issues, and it’s about time we addressed them.

First of all, no song about a nice guy begins with the threat, “You better watch out” because he’s “coming to town”. Things these phrases actually call to mind: Dark alleys. Blood. Whimpering. Slipping something into the milk and cookies. A thugly guy scowling over a prone body, warning the victim to “take it like a man” (or, to be more accurate, “You better not cry! You better not pout! Oh, and don’t call the cops, or you’re toast! Got it?”) Only a few lines in, and I’m already wondering if this is a Christmas tune or a Mob movie.

So clear is the image presented by the first verse that when it switches from visions of muscle-bound goons and impending doom to a dark stalker fantasy, the change requires a pitch shift — and gets it.

Before we go any further, I want you to ask yourself one thing: What kind of old guy is so obsessed with little children that he spends that much time watching them? Not a nice one, okay? Which is why “He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake…” makes me feel less than cozy — and I slipped past his radar twenty years ago.

Of course, his favors only come if you’ve been “good”. Vague much, Santa? Because what, exactly, is “good” — other than a watered-down and subjective word? Honestly, I can only hope my standards for “good” are not the same as Santa, considering what that guy’s been up to. In which case if I am still under his surveillance I’m bound for the naughty list, which means what, precisely? Here again things get a little vague, which, as those horror movie buffs out there know, is often scarier than knowing exactly what misfortune will befall those who don’t follow the rules. According to some, letting the imagination devise possible punishments for the victim is the number one rule of writing suspense.

As if to hide these threats from Christmas-crazed listeners, the entire song — shades of mobsters and stalkers and all — is done with three times the speed and fifteen times the pep, letting the message slip into our subconscious. Seriously, envision it slower, and in a more menacing voice. Now don’t you feel nervous, too?

The Closest I’ll (Probably) Get to Ranting

Warning: Blatant Phlegmagery Ahead

I’ve come to the library to work in quiet and comfort among people. As I open my notebook, I hear the gentle slide of books taken from shelves and then replaced, the whisk of turning pages, the humming of the heater, the far-away mumble of voices at the circulation desk — and the relentless moist sniffing of a middle-aged man reading a mystery novel on the other side of the room.

Maybe it’s the high ceilings of the library, or perhaps he’s simply enthusiastic, but these blasts of noise are unnaturally loud. They drown out a nearby child’s sudden giggles, crowd into my thoughts, and slime into my throat, giving me the uncomfortable feeling that I’m the one who needs a tissue.

To preserve the calm of the library and to save myself from the annoyance of my own repeated sniffles, I brought tissues. Is it rude to stand up, stride across the room, and offer a handful of Puffs to the man who has now progressed from wet sniffles to echoey snorts? I can see myself smiling kindly at him, offering him the handful of tissues, pointing out that he must be uncomfortable, phrasing it as if I’m the one doing him a favor.

But I picture his defensive reply to an offer gone wrong, and I can’t. Instead, I wait for him to leave, glancing between the leaves of the ficus that blocks most of my view. Like contractions, I time his snorts. They are seven and a half seconds apart.

This guy’s not going anywhere soon. He is now biting his fist and leaning forward, absorbed in a scene in his book. Occasionally he coughs. I make a mental note not to select that novel next; no need to make more than an across-the-room acquaintance with his germs.

Resigned, I burrow back into my writing, determined to focus.

Nearly four hours later, I gather my belongings and head for the door. It has been a productive day — in between my unfortunate companion’s lapses. As I near the circulation desk, I look up and notice in horror that I am just eight feet behind the sniffler, who is also headed for the door. I am plowing through his germy wake and, even worse, I have missed the opportunity to write without the soundtrack of his own making. I consider returning to my still-warm seat, reopening my notebook and immersing myself in plot and characters and quiet, but my time is short, so I follow him reluctantly, vowing to pack music on my next foray to the library, just in case.

A Quiet Rebirth

If there is such a thing as a “momentous moment”, I suppose this is one: the first brand new scratchings on a clean blog. I feel as if I have just walked into the polished hallways of a new school–new to me, at least–ready to begin the year. I can still smell the floor wax and that sweet, faded mix of gym shoes, sweat, and old paper so typical of a high school. Ahh. It’s good to be back. I have no idea what I will do with this blog stretching before me, but there is time. And in the interim I will begin to formulate posts as I tweak my template, blogroll, and categories.

Yes, it’s good to be back…

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