Blogging and Site Meters

Site meters.

Some of us have them, some of us don't. Our needs for them differ.

I just finished a novel. The blurb about the author included info that 150 million books are in print. Another new author I read recently said 3 million. Another old pro said 350 million. That's a LOT of books.

For me, the site metert is affirmation that I am being read. I think a few years ago, I would have been more ambitious than that, but today, that's where I am. Writers write. Hopefully not into the ether. If I wanted to journal, I could do that, but I do want the human interaction of conversation, per se. Every so often, I get a comment back. Delightful.

I really do like the world of blogging. I've always enjoyed talking to strangers, picking up ideas and facts as a gift of the day, unlooked for. One of my most enjoyable experiences was about 30 years ago, in line to pay for Christmas toys at Toys R Us. My sons are seven years apart. The woman ahead of me looked in my cart, noted the disparate ages of the toys' suitability, and without further ado, said, "My husband and I have been thinking about having another baby, but our firstborn is (8? 9? 10?) How's that going?" We began an engrossed conversation, joined by the father behind us who was noticing the lack of violent toys in my cart as well , and we discussed that, too. I think it took 30 minutes to reach the counter, and I was actually disappointed when the time was over. One of the best conversations I can ever remember. Have no idea who either of them are.

Blogging is much the same. Over time, I am learning the actual names of a few of the responders. Those are the ones who are slowly becoming friends of a sort, because we have frequent exchanges. The site meter tells me several regulars from different parts of the country check in. I want to say, "welcome, welcome." It comforts me. Wish I could serve hot tea and cookies.

With the recent flurry of blog nominations, I copied several of the entries to read. Most have blown me away. One of the most popular, however, just leaves me puzzled with its popularity. Kind of like Caesar salad, I guess. Everyone likes it but me. That's okay, both with me and probably the writer. Can't please everyone, and shouldn't try.

In the last 15 years, I worked with professional colleagues, some of whom could not write a coherant sentence despite advanced degrees. Most could do competent work, they just couldn't write. So I am delighted to find out how many actually talented writers are out there.

Is one a better person if one can write well? It would be pretty to think so. Is it a power thing? For some, I'm sure it is. Popularity? probably, for some. For others, a professional avenue that may lead to a book, or more books, and a new career. A voice, I like to think. A friend today sent me a YouTube clip of a mobile phone salesman from South Wales singing opera. Now, I am not a big opera fan, but this man opened his mouth and this absolutely glorious tenor welled out. The audience, and the judges, went wild. I suppose this is from the British prototype that became American Idol. The Welshman was an ordinary person with an extraordinary voice. So many of you are out there, and I am so happy when I discover another one of you.

I know there are a lot of Bad People out there, and I've worked with a number of them. (I remember a grandmother in particular who once told me, "I don't know why you think I am such a bad person." "I know," I replied.) It makes me appreciate goodness even more. In the last week, two strangers came to my aid entirely unexpectedly, one reducing an emergency to an inconvenience, the other making the trial of shopping (my arthritis is rather painful) more comfortable by insisting on carrying a heavy package to my car. He was the salesman, but he surely didn't have any obligation to do that, and I was startled. He got nothing out of it but the satisfaction of helping. As I have said, I believe in passing on acts of random kindness. I will be on the alert--I have at least two to pass on.

In the same way, I am refreshed by most of the blogs I am reading. Good People are not yet an endangered specie, as I have sometimes worried. Oh, I know the ranting, raving, hate-filled blogs are out there, all right, but I don't have to read them, do I? ;)

Before there were blogs, there were letters to the editor in newspapers. An old man from a small Texas town took to sending regular observations into the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. He was a retired farmer, and he would write about the changing seasons and, I remember particularly, "sassy blue jays." His site meter would have been huge, since the Star-Telegram was distributed at that time into West Texas as well as the Metroplex. The editors weren't fools, they printed everything the old man wrote.

Not long before he died, he wrote a letter I will never forget. He said, "I sit on my porch and watch the young man I once was walk across the furrows. He stands, arms akimbo, and nods in satisfaction at the man I have become." What a wonderful life he had. Not splashy. Not rich. No kings or Presidents. I'm sure I am not the only reader who remembers him. He wrote, he shared, and we benefitted.

Blogging is much the same. Site meters simply affirm we are read.

Writing for Its Ownself

For 26 years, I was a professional writer. Writing is a pretty big part of who I am. Then I went into social casework, and for another 13 years, no one but my supervors, judges, attorneys and a few parents read anything I wrote. Most of the writing was objective, in third person, though I did write the occasional op ed piece.

I am enjoying the writing of this immensely. It feels like practicing scales and occasionally, attempting a melody. Writing is a type of music, I think. Strong writers have a cadence, a rhythm to their writing that adds to the enjoyment of the narrative. Just as we can train our ears to recognize Beethoven from Mozart, we recognize the melody of the writers we read the most. I find the ones I re-read the most tend to have the most music in their arrangement of words. Anne Rivers Siddons has a beauty to her narrative that almost transcends the content. But then there's Robert Parker, whose spare, staccato prose also pleases.

I don't think I'm going to find a particular niche or genre for awhile, if ever. The "When I was a girl" pieces are something I've been thinking about for awhile, not only to collect old family stories for my grandchildren, since no one else in my family is left to tell them, but also to try to paint small pictures of life many years ago. It is so different from today. I keep thinking how to explain to my granddaughters what a hot water bottle was--or still probably is, though I haven't seen one for years. The description must not be cumbersome, but evoke a picture of something they have never seen. (I remember my youngest son seeing a Scripts ink bottle with the well in the top in a museum, for God's sake, and asking me what it was and what it was for. When I was in elementary school, I turned that ink bottle upside down every morning, filling the well, then filled my ink pen before going to school. In a museum? He didn't know what it was?)

Some years ago, I read a quote that struck me: by our late 50's, we have all become the curators of our personal museums. It's pretty true. I don't want to get stuck in the past, but at times I choose to remember parts. I want to write about the present and the future, as well. All over the place. (sigh) Mostly, I want to see if I can get some of my music back. I suspect a direction will present itself, or perhaps not.

My blog is Green Chiles and Roses for several reasons: Green Chiles are evocative of New Mexico. My father was a tremendous--and prodigious--rose gardener; we had more than 60 around our home. I was named for a rosebush introduced commercially in 1942. I'm delighted to say it is a rosy pink tea rose. Despite the elegance of roses, I've been pleased roses also can protect themselves--they have thorns. And they smell glorious.

I've been surprised and delighted by the plethora of well-written blog sites I am descovering. I've seen a lot of writing by college graduates--even mult-degreed college graduates--that makes me weep and cringe. But as I begin to surf the Web, I am reassured. There are so msny thoughtful, literate writers out there. Some good thinkers, and great humorists. So many different kinds of lives. People watching is one of my favorite things, and the Web is one more way to do it.

So I pick my way, tentatively putting words down on a page and trying to find some way to make the words sing for me. Once in a while, they do.