Hello, good morning, yadda yadda yadda weekly blog post.
People apparently don’t like it much when I write speculative things about speculative science. At least they didn’t like it last week. Or, rather, they didn’t “like” it as much, or as often, however you want to put it. Or, at least, I didn’t notice as many “likes”, though I suppose I could be mistaken; obviously I’m not interested enough to go and check at the bottom of the post and its predecessors to see if there is a difference. Maybe it’s all in my head. People seem not to mind much when I express the difficulties I have with things that are definitely in may head, which I would have thought would be more boring than speculations about science.
I often wonder what proportion of the people who “like” a given blog post actually read it. I, of course, don’t write particularly short posts—they are almost never as short as I intend them to be—and so I guess it’s hard to hold it against people if they don’t quite make it to the end, or even past the initial paragraph, or past the initial sentence. Or past the title. I almost never get any feedback, so it’s quite difficult to tell if this whole thing isn’t an exercise in futility.
The nominal idea behind this blog was to promote my writing in general, but I’m not sure it’s done any good at that (or that anyone other than immediate family reads my books and stories). This blog and its schedule have certainly led me to write a lot that I might not have written otherwise. But there are things that I’ve written here, especially recently, that I probably should have just put up on Iterations of Zero. Last week’s science stuff is a good example, but so are my mental health concerns.
But this blog is one I write every week, by personal schedule, by commitment, by whatever you want to call it, and I have yet to get myself into a good schedule for IoZ. So sometimes I’ve just gone and written here some things that I would otherwise have relegated to my “secondary blog”.
Such subjects may drive away those who might be interested in reading about my writing and the writing process and so on, though I’m not sure such people exist. Actually, I’m barely sure that there are any other people out there. That’s not literally true, of course, I’m well aware that there are over seven billion people in the world. I’m not a solipsist—by definition, there could never be more than one solipsist if that person were correct. The notion of solipsism has been handily demolished by more interested minds than I. I’m certainly convinced that I don’t have it in me to imagine the whole universe, even if it’s only limited to the things with which I’ve interacted personally.
Nevertheless, I do still feel almost completely, profoundly alone. And though this is a terribly unpleasant and almost intolerable state, the prospect of meeting other people, interacting with other people, connecting with other people, is more daunting than the prospect of dying alone, at least if the latter happens sooner rather than later. I have it on good authority that I’m an unpleasant person—a good number of people whose opinions I value dearly have either explicitly or implicitly made this clear. I even feel it about myself. So why should I be so cruel as to inflict myself on other people?
I’m toying with the idea of quitting this blog, or at least putting it on hiatus. I don’t get any feedback or interaction from it—or nearly none—and it’s frustrating to share one’s thoughts every Thursday morning without knowing if anyone encounters them or gives a flying fuck at a tiny little rat’s ass about them. If it’s just a matter of talking to myself, I can do that without a word processor—and I do, quite a lot of the time. I already hardly use Facebook or Twitter, except to share these blog posts and some YouTube videos I find interesting. I’m not egotistical enough to imagine that the world will suffer from not having my thoughts out there, or indeed from not having my existence.
Since I always title these weekly blog posts with slightly altered quotes from Shakespeare—or I have done so for quite a while, anyway—I figure that, once I decide for certain that a given blog post will definitely be my last, for any reason, I’ll simply title it, “The rest is silence” …Hamlet’s last words. Similarly, if I knew that I was sharing my last item to Facebook and/or Twitter, it would be the final song of the first album of Pink Floyd’s The Wall. But of course, it may well come to pass that I’ll write a final blog post and share a final share on those other “social” “media” without knowing that it is the last one. This could be the last one for all I know. I’m not sure I would mind that.
Anyway, I’m still editing In the Shade, and the process is going well enough. I hope to be done with it reasonably soon, and possibly then to release my collection Dr. Elessar’s Cabinet of Curiosities. I have all sorts of possible book ideas to write after that, but right now I have no interest in writing any of them. I’m very tired, on all levels. To quote from the fourth-from-last song on album one of The Wall, “nothing is very much fun anymore.” And, obviously, I’m not much fun, myself.
I write because I could stop writing as well as I could stop breathing. I too often wonder who actually reads, I get some “likes” here or there and I appreciate those as an acknowledgement that it was seen. It is the comments, the ones that prove through the words they actually read enough to understand the intent. But yes, there are times you feel to be the voice in the wilderness and no one is listening.
Robert, I try to read your every post in its entirety, though I might not hit the like button. I, as a fellow writer, am one who is “interested in reading about [your] writing and the writing process,” so more on this subject, please.