This is a post I’ve been meaning to write for some time. It could have been the About section of this blog, but I rant too much, and I suffer from acute verbo-motor disorder. My About section would have dissuaded all but Norman Mailer from following me. Ok, him too.
A year ago, while in the prime of my adolescence, I drafted a first blog post. Back then, if I remember my youth correctly, I had opted for Tumblr. The blog concept was simple: a melting pot of Instagram, Hipstamatic, photoshopped images, and a little written content [fatherhood, pop culture, work, frogs, life with Sara, and so on...]. One night, coming back from work in a very crowded bus, I quickly penned something about a well-known and well-respected creative writer working for a well-known and well-respected Montreal marketing agency. I liked the guy. I liked his style. I liked the tribute I paid him.
Granted, it needed revision and editing (my wife will look over what I write before I publish a post. If I could write like Sara, I wouldn’t hide behind a beard, a fedora hat, and sunglasses when I go out.) The next morning, I sent a very rough draft to this person as a courtesy, and obviously, for his approval of the piece. I’m at the office when the phone rings. It’s him. I’m nervous. He’s big cheese. What I remember from that one-way phone conversation is this: “Make sure you remove my name and any similarities to me. You can’t write worth shit”. I held the phone receiver for a few minutes after he hung up, stunned. Nauseated.
I immediately renounced blogging.
I’ve made [some] peace with that phone conversation. I’ve made [some] peace with my writing, too. I write in conversational Frenglish. This is not isolated to vocabulary, either. I use French syntax. I’m also really fond of “and” and “but”, but not so much in the same sentence,
but and I can now use the Oxford comma.
Ike to write. I like receiving personal emails about my writing ["... your writing encouraged me from the start. I so appreciate that..." How f*cking sweet is that?]. I like making you believe in my uber-inflated ego on-line persona, when it is so much worse in real life. I like obsessing over my stats. I like looking at my wife rolling her eyes when I obsessively check my stats. I like to use the word f*ck, and pretend that using an asterisk makes a difference. I like following bloggers, and unfollowing some. I like reading you (not YOU though – you totally suck ass – but nice meeting you anyway).
And I like blogging. But. And. But. End.