My husband says the Golden Age of blogs is gone, that they hit their peak with MySpace and are fading out and away. I think that’s bullshit. There’s still room on the Internet for blogs. You don’t have to look far to see people still write them. Granted half suck, and, sure, the climate and terrain have changed since the MySpace Top 10, but the concept remains the same: I post, you click; you get a free and amusing way to kill a few minutes between Poison videos, I get to dust off my keyboard, spread my wings, and say shit that could get me arrested in at least five countries. Everybody wins! How can something so right be so wrong?
The key is to be interesting and give the reader not just what he wants, but more than he expects. Are you here to laugh? Learn something new? Be surprised? Shocked? Turned on? How ‘bout all the above? I want to lure you deep (down the cleavage, past the belly button) into the world of the written word. I want to touch you where your girlfriend won’t, make you step away from the sound bytes and cartoons, and let me take you places you’d only heard words could go. I want you to get so much out of this blog you need a towel.
To make that happen, I have to (a) know what you want and (b) deliver. Otherwise, my attempts to seduce you will fall as short as that Kardashian chick’s radio career and I’ll be left out here playing with myself. I won’t lie, it might take a little trial and error. Many of us are just getting acquainted. And I’m doing this without a crutch; no theme, no agenda, no topic. When you visit, you’re bound to get an earful (eyeful) of me and my opinions, but, regardless of the subject matter, YOU will forever be the force that drives me. That’s why “Dawn’s Alter Ego” won’t ever be “Dawn’s Wond’rous World of Watercolor Painting”—there’s no sense of surprise in that. Besides, if I felt the urge to talk about sexual harassment, blowjobs (is that one word or two?), public indecency, the Daytona 500, the ungrateful little shitheads* who call me Mom, or Kid Rock, I’m not sure anyone would remember the brush technique we were discussing. I could be wrong.
I figure MY blog, MY rules. And rule #1: NO RULES. I embarked on a full-time writing career ten years and two novels ago, armed with the pledge to get more people to read. That means I can’t color within the lines. I have to be better than the next guy, break through the confines of predictable, genre-based fiction, and take readers on the ride of their lives. Believe me, I’ve thought a lot about settling into a topic. Nearly everyone close to me has suggested it. Sticking with a theme would certainly make this blogging shit easier. There’d be no more “What should I write about today?” dilemmas, and I wouldn’t have to resort to sharing stories about the year I lost smoking coke or the multiple sexual encounters I had in my (lengthy, notorious) slut phase. A good topic, say Writing Tips for the New Writer, would give me an easy target audience, a plethora of material, and endless opportunities to tell people what to do (something a therapist once told me I have a need for). But I’m bored just THINKING about it. If, as the writer, I’M bored, imagine where that leaves YOU.
Short answer: Someone else’s blog.
What you’ve got here, then, is ME. In all my glory. Who’da thunk the eldest daughter of a truck driver – a hillbilly straight out’ the woods of Rochester, Washington – could grow up to be so fuckin’ interesting? (And, honey, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!) My husband (and probably half the planet) says the Golden Age is dead, but I think he’s wrong. I also think the best bang for your blog buck is right here. Whether you want it clean and quick or slow and thorough, I’m your man…or…well…you know what I mean. I’ll be back eventually with a new post. For now, poke around the site, read a post or two (there’s a shit-load), and get your feet wet. What else did you plan to do? Update your Facebook status (“Got a great deal on shoes! Love my life!”)? Run a Google search for “recipes for stewed prunes”? Trust me, the only person who cares about your shoes is the bitch who saw them first but couldn’t move her fat ass fast enough to beat you to them, and a good soul-cleansing is as beneficial to the system as a nutritious, natural laxative any day of the week.
Oh, one last thing: Don’t be afraid to tell me what you think (where to go, what to do when I get there, etc.). If not here in a comment, send me an email or PM me on Facebook. This is the Internet – it’s INTER-active. It’ll only take a minute, it’ll help me make this a better place, and you’ll have the satisfaction of participating in what might one day be proclaimed the best blog on the World Wide Web. (Don’t laugh: If an actor can be president, a billionaire bimbo can be a best-selling author, and Steve Buscemi can be a leading man, a 47-year-old, stay-at-home redneck fiction writer in South Florida can write a #1 blog. Don’t think so? Feel free to stand back and fuck off.)
Until then, I’ll be right here…playing with myself…and waiting for you. :)
* P.S. Originally referred to as "the ungrateful little bastards who call me Mom," my children will henceforth be referenced as shitheads - after my daughter insisted they not be called "bastards" any more. ;)