Stage Fright

Over the last few days I have acquired some new readers thanks to Charlie in Glasgow (of all bleedin' places). This has been a very pleasant surprise and they have all made very kind comments (thank you very much, by the way). People have been very supportive from the beginning but the first readers were all family and friends. They pretty much had to like my blog. That many of them genuinely do is very, very nice. (Hugs to all of you, including the New Jersey Cousin who reads faithfully and sends me sweet emails because she is loathe to leave a comment).

It is, however, a whole other sort of affirmation to have total strangers find the blog and like it. My first Blogtopian connections were random surprises, like a pearl in a Kumamoto. Early on I found some very entertaining and/or thoughtful blogs that are still the first blog reading I do each day. (JP, Pat and Bad Alice, I mean you. And JP, you were the first person to link me. If I ever give an acceptance speech for something I will be thanking you, by name, right after The Spouse (for all his love and support), The Child (for all the blog fodder) and my (currently nonexistent) Agent, for the lucrative contracts). That these folks also read my blog is a treat because they have no other reason to do so than because they want to. And I thank them. Not unlike Sally Field thanked the Academy. I also want to buy the world a Coke.

Last night I was all buzzy with joy at all the validation. This morning, as always, I sat down to my computer. I looked, as always, to my Jane Austen action figure who, as always, smiled benignly. And I had nothin'.

It wasn't the nothin' of tiredness or distraction. It was a Kierkegaardian nothin' of fear and self-conciousness. I imagined this swelling readership ('cause it's gotta be up to like 8 or something) and I didn't know what to write. Because I'm nothing if not a pleaser. I want all you nice people to keep coming by and reading and commenting. Hell, I want to take you all to a pub and buy the first round.

The good news is that now that I've gotten that off my chest I feel better. Pat accurately describes this as a "bloggy blog". If it were a physical thing it would look like Dr. Jones' grail diary from the 3rd Indiana Jones movie: full of sketches, odd jottings, bits of ephemera and a dirigible ticket or two. I write about whatever is on my mind, which could be anything. Sometimes it's good, sometimes not so much. It is what it is and I love my little blog. I have been known to pat it's pointed little head.

Right then. I don't think I'm afraid of you anymore. Starting tomorrow I'll just do what I've been doing and strive toward my own standards (which include but are not limited to: not being too profane, too arty-farty or spending too much time on my soapbox). I hope you'll continue to enjoy the results. In future, if I start thinking about it too much, I'll pretend there's just one of you because that's probably better than imagining y'all in your underwear.

Thanks a sincere heap for coming 'round.