Her Royal Bloggess

The most wasted of all days is one without laughter. 

~e.e. cummings

This is my seventh week of blogging, and….

Yeah, yeah Writer Dad.  Six weeks, a thousand comments.  High five, blue medal, good job, you’re a role model; can we move on?

I have a point.  I’ll get to it quickly.

You better.

In seven weeks, I’ve learned that blog is a verb, rather than a noun.  Understanding that simple truth has led me to adapt my approach.  Which is good, because if you do anything new for seven weeks with zero adaptation, I can’t imagine you’re doing it very well.  

I quickly found I wanted no niche, and by the third week, I knew I wanted Friday’s to be special; a day to drop a ditty, a bit more darling.  

I’ve loved the community.  So comments, on both sides of the interstate, have been paramount.

I’m still trying to figure out precisely what I want from Writer Dad, but last week, I rolled another solid on the Rubik’s Cube.

I was bouncing around my reader, as I do, when I’m right in the middle of A and B and I’m sure no one’s looking.  I opened a site I’d opened once before.  I’d subscribed because the post had made me laugh.  Remembering this, I smiled when I saw the header (you’ll see).  

I read the post, then I read it again.

This bears repeating.  

I read a LOT of text in a day.  I don’t know how much, but Rita dared me to read the bible cover to cover and if I slid my macbook under the mattress for a day, and skimmed, just a little, I could probably swallow half.

I read the post, then I read it again. 

Her name’s Jenny, or the Bloggess.  I know I’m probably late to the party, and everyone’s already drawn on my face with marker, but I just found her a week ago.  

Her posts are so hilarious, I laugh out loud the whole way through.  

The only way you could not like her blog is if you don’t like things that start out great, end awesome, and are really rad right inside their rosy middle.  Well, actually, if you don’t care for potty talk, you probably won’t like her very much at all.  

But other than that, she’s all aces.

Just so you know I’m not exaggerating, here are her last five posts, in order.  

I didn’t go back in time and warn her or anything.

When I said potty mouth, I meant POTTY MOUTH.  So delicate = do not click.

This one made me snort.  This one almost made me pee.  This one actually made me pee, a little.  This one made me mop.  This one made me shart.

I know, right?

In the last week, every time I’ve checked my reader, I’ve looked for the Bloggess first.  For the first few days, nothing.  The second I saw a new post, I opened it.  

It was thirty-eight minutes after it went live.  

And there were already fifty-one comments.  

I’ve broken that number twice, and on the second time, I had to talk about poo.

I closed the window with a clearer idea of what I wanted.  

I want to be the guy who gets fifty comments in the first hour, not because of the traffic he might generate, but because his writing’s worth the time.

I love the comments on Writer Dad, because I know they’re not for traffic, though I’m sure there’s been a few.  But the site’s new, and there’s not a whole lot of traffic to wrangle.  

I want an audience who looks forward to my posts, and misses them if not there.  I want to make people laugh, and think; maybe sometimes at the same time.  

We all have enough to deal with.  Sometimes we just want someone who says things a little different, or perhaps even a little better.

I know I do.

Two weeks ago, whenever I saw ProBlogger light my reader, I’d stop whatever I was doing, open Darren’s post, read it, comment, then close.  

It made sense; I’m new, I need traffic.

But there’s only so much time in the day, and if I have to cut, I’ve gotta make time for the things that’ll stick to my soul.   I can’t imagine Darren responding to my comment; I can’t imagine not responding to one of mine.  

We serve different functions and I’m comfortable with that.  Blogs are as individual as people.

I’ll still comment, of course, but only with purpose.  If you see me at ProBlogger, with nothing enlightening to say, you’re welcome to wander over here and punch my teeth in the comments.

I promise I’ll respond.

Writer Dad

If you enjoyed my words, please subscribe by RSS or email.  I’ll be back again tomorrow.  If you’re a Stumbler, please consider stumbling.  Thanks.

Epilogue:  I sent the Bloggess an email.  I think I might have even referred to her writing as “sheer joy.”  If not, it was equally dorky.  Anyway, she emailed me back and said, “You’re Writer Dad?  You rock!”  Then she called me a wordsmith.  It was neat. 

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