So I think I've grown mostly out of my paranoia about people watching me, at least as far as this blog is concerned. (Not in real life, of course. When I was little, I insisted that no one watch my dancing, which wouldn't have been so ridiculous if I hadn't agreed to a contest with someone. We were dancing to "Flood." Actually I think I had the right idea in not wanting to be watched... that's not a song anyone should perform to. But it was ridiculous to go along with the contest idea. But I digress.) So while I'm not going to shout it from the rooftops, and I'm not going to want anybody to link to it, and I'm not going to make my profile public (well... maybe later), I don't want anybody else to think that they are required to keep mum about this existing. I just didn't want somebody linking to it, or posting in on Facebook, or some crap like that that pulls a lot of bored clickers over to read my rambling sludge. But I don't mean that I want anyone to feel like they have to comment or anything, especially since most of the stuff is crap. It's just up to you.
The decision is yours... do as you LIKE with it!
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Perpetual Disclaimer
I'll be perfectly honest here for a moment. I like to make sure that things with my name attached are of a certain quality of make, design, thoughtfulness, comprehensibility and responsibility. The internet in general is not the natural habitat of those qualities, and this blog in particular is a vile wasteland where their unluckiest seeds drift onto the scorched and ash-choked earth, grope blindly for life through the putrid smog for a few torturous moments, then die in blind agony as the fetid, poisonous air seeps into their very essence and burns them from within.
In an alternate metaphor, this blog is my margin. (Margin is one of those words that stops looking like a word after a couple seconds.) If you want something of substance, look elsewhere. (Perhaps somewhere off the internet altogether.) And no, I haven't put my name on it and I haven't told anyone about it. So you're either reading this completely at random, or because you wanted to know if I had a blog and knew exactly how creative I am when thinking of aliases and exactly how willing I am to pay for site space, or because you're stalking me and you've stolen my laptop to see where my bookmarks lead, or because... giants? took over the world? and you're--no wait--I was the sole survivor? and I kept a record of the takeover Cloverfield-style starting in a few posts? and eventually I went insane as a fugitive of the giant gestapo and either went down like the book version of I Am Legend or just recorded my sad yet enlightening decline into madness until the last entry is some lame recovered memory that bursts in right before I die, like The Awakening? Please say it's the I Am Legend one. Please?
In an alternate metaphor, this blog is my margin. (Margin is one of those words that stops looking like a word after a couple seconds.) If you want something of substance, look elsewhere. (Perhaps somewhere off the internet altogether.) And no, I haven't put my name on it and I haven't told anyone about it. So you're either reading this completely at random, or because you wanted to know if I had a blog and knew exactly how creative I am when thinking of aliases and exactly how willing I am to pay for site space, or because you're stalking me and you've stolen my laptop to see where my bookmarks lead, or because... giants? took over the world? and you're--no wait--I was the sole survivor? and I kept a record of the takeover Cloverfield-style starting in a few posts? and eventually I went insane as a fugitive of the giant gestapo and either went down like the book version of I Am Legend or just recorded my sad yet enlightening decline into madness until the last entry is some lame recovered memory that bursts in right before I die, like The Awakening? Please say it's the I Am Legend one. Please?
Blog Archive
tree falling in a forest
well, for some reason, this exists now
Very-much-in-character-explanation-by-way-of-story: When I was at a Young Authors' or some such conference in high school there was a very wise sage speaking who compared writing to turning on a faucet. If you don't write for a long time, all you get is orange, terrifyingly bad-looking sludge for awhile, and you just have to let all that run its way out of the pipes before you get to the good stuff. So, uh, fair warning... this is sludge.
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