Blog. What an unpleasant word. It’s something you expect to see in a horror novel (“It was squatting there, like a blog, looking disreputable and vaguely sinister”) or describing an unfortunate bodily function (“I can’t eat cucumbers, they make me blog”).
Now I have one.
Why, you ask? Apparently this is my publisher’s big plan for reaching the bestseller list. Sheer marketing genius at work. It used to be that only pre-teen girls, English majors and serial killers felt the need to record every passing thought for posterity. Now it seems that everyone with a computer feels compelled to share their gardening tips, puppy pictures, tantric sex secrets and satori-like insights. This is how we now express ourselves. As one particularly tough editor said, “You want to express yourself? Yell out the f**king window.”
Welcome to my window.