Everybody's Got Something to Write Except for Me and My Monkey

I don't like the thought of millions of other people doing what I'm doing now. That is to say: writing these wretched blogs. I don't like the thought of them thinking that they're writing important things and hoping important people will read them. I don't like anyone that has a blog. Because he may be the only person who will read this, I'll exclude Ben – whose latest post, incidentally, deals with a similar issue: Yodo Stories. But is it merely the competition that I hate? Perhaps, but it goes somewhat deeper then that.

It seems everyone really does want their fifteen minutes of fame – bar none. Everyone wants recognition; otherwise there would be no point in having your blog online. Or maybe everyone just wants immortality – with their works living posthumously and, in the process, allowing their memory to survive. The deep, primal fear is of death, and, although it makes no difference what you've achieved in the end, we still want to make an impact on our surroundings; mainly to satisfy our egos, but also to make us feel worthwhile, like we haven't wasted our time here.

People also entertain the hope of a book publisher stumbling across their site and offering them a deal on the spot, which, when you think about it, is absolutely ridiculous. For one, I can't think of a single case in which this happened; and for two I don't believe for an instant that book publishers would look through blogs for potential authors. The likely hood of them happening upon yours is impossibly remote, so I wouldn't even write this off as a possibility. Also, and most importantly, book publishers are scum and even on the off-chance that you're some sort of literary genius, they would still happily ignore you.

Art is no longer accepted on its merits alone (actually I'm not sure if it ever was). It's all a business and there's no use complaining about it. Don't, for instance, rant about the fallings of Hollywood – of which there are many – because in their minds, if it makes money, it's a success – regardless of the cumulative star ratings from the critics. For your work to be accepted, in any medium – with perhaps gallery art as an exception, it has to appear sellable. What it boils down to is this: if you've got something wholly original, the likes of which the world has never seen, then no one will want it, and you'll be forced to finance it yourself. If, after you've succeeding in getting your work out there, it becomes an enormous success, then all the companies that turned you down will beg for you services and employ all manner of copy-cats to ride your wave. Such is life.

Even though I've often yearned for more readers, I'm warming to the idea of being without them. I like the thought of writing as though the whole world is listening when, in reality, only Ben (the famed author of Betweenways) is – if anyone. It's an odd way of having a conversation, really. And there's something marvelously stubborn about it all.