It was meant to be about writing. I intended to blog all about my attack on the literary scene. Sure, I'd oil the machine with some sassy cultural observations, but the main thrust would be about my writing.
As weapons in my armory for this attack, I have a couple of brilliant, almost complete short stories, a novel called The Book of Ruth and of course my cool online interactive novel Face the Consequences. I hoped to use these and Transatlantic Tales to flag down some passing agents - ultimately so I can get a deal for my novel Erosion. I pictured myself dusting off those short stories, submitting them to the New Yorker and documenting the process in a concentrated fashion in my literary blog.
And yes, I'm assuming that the unblogged endeavour just doesn't have the same chance of success. That's the only explanation that makes sense for all those depressing (weird, as they should be cheering) weight loss and debt repayment blogs.
|Face the Consequences - a new 'choose your own' adventure|
|The Book of Ruth, as narrated by God to Isadora Watts|
This grand plan has gone wrong. Instead I am blogging about eating, drinking and moving house. And that's because I'm being restrained. Trust me, it could be even more scattered. I find myself writing blog posts in my mind - which thankfully don't see the light of day - on topics as random and trivial as my love of small ceramic jugs (including a digressive paragraph on the ones without handles) and the recent rediscovery of a favourite red belt I haven't worn for 5 years (obi-style!).
Other, better blogs are far more concentrated. My love of blogs begins and ends with Fashion Toast, which is essentially photos of Rumi Neely looking pouty in various vintage outfits. I look at it daily and know exactly what I will find when I do. Very satisfying. The Euro aka Hemingway Holly is firing witty continental barbs at the silliness of Los Angeles: a subject vast enough to provide the sole content of a hilarious blog. My smart friend Soph blogs on Babes with Babies about being a gorgeous glamourous mother, which is both focused and pretty aspirational. And a new favourite is Little Brown Pen, which consists solely of colour-study photos of Paris.
So I think I need to shape up. Stop chit chatting about eggs and ham and Skymall, and channel a laser-sharp beam directly at literary adventures.
Sigh. The thing is, I just had this amazing gingered pork belly with brussell sprout slaw (TLOML are going out of California with a bang, in Napa), and did so want to tell you all about it... And that red obi belt deserves an entry all of it's own... I can't make any promises people. I guess I'm just not the laser-sharp focus type.
PS Just tagged this post and am ashamed to realise this is the first time I have labelled anything with 'writing'. Says it all, doesn't it?