I know I've written a good blog when I reread it hours after the last set of proofs and tinkers, and I find myself laughing again. And one good blog triggers another. I have begun to feel very chicken-and-egg about blogging--does the event trigger the blog or does the blogging make the event noteworthy? Nevertheless, here are some of the signs I have learned that show me when an event is blogworthy or when a blog is going to entertain:
1. When my husband does something and says about it later: It seemed like a good idea at the time. I wonder if he'll be saying that about the motorcycle he bought a year ago that he will finally be bringing home from storage this summer. Frankly, I see myself with a hard cast up to the hip after my first-ever motorcycle ride saying the same thing. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
2. Anything my son does involving what a girlfriend of mine calls "Shit-iroshima". You can draw a conclusion about what this might mean based on the fact that we now call Friday night's 3 AM vomiting session "Puke-asaki". I have yet to write about it, but then I have written before about the mass eruption that is children's barfing. Do we really need to go there again? Yes. Yes, we do.
3. When an event is a metaphor for something else, the event is now blogworthy. For example, the day my dog died, the dog I once shared with my ex-husband. Enough said.
4. When a lesson is learned. For example, why I should never shop with my children. And this week I learned another new lesson: I should have ignored my son when he asked me if using the middle finger was bad. I said yes, and today he willfully and knowingly shot his sister the bird. He's not even five. I have so much to learn.
5. When I eat something so incredible I immediately transcend time and space, my five senses become electrified, and I swear I'm having a foodgasm. I wish I had taken the time to describe every breakfast I ate at Cafe Pasqual's in Santa Fe, New Mexico this year. I love food. I think food is amazing. It's multi-sensory, sexual, comforting, basic, extreme, and a mastery of chemical reaction both in creation and consumption--all at once.
6. When I experience something that I know will directly relate to a reader, a common topic, and put a twist on it you didn't see coming. Or maybe, I put something out there that I never could have said at the kitchen table growing up, like my friend Jay's line in this post: http://cafecatiche.blogspot.com/2010/12/facebook-vs-blogger.html. It's a super short post. You'll know the line when you see it.
7. And when I experience something inspiring or life-changing. The posts about New Mexico are particularly examples of that.
8. Anytime I have to explain sex to my daughter. Remember this one? http://cafecatiche.blogspot.com/2010/05/joy-of-sex-education.html And just recently, we had a whole separate discussion when someone let my daughter watch an inappropriate film. And I quote: "Mom, I thought the guy's thingie went into the girl's thingie like this." She made a gesture. I said yes, that that was true. "Ok, but I just saw this movie where this girl was in love with two guys and one of them got her from behind." You can imagine the phone calls I had to place after THAT.
9. When the small moments are really big moments. I went to a children's talent show at my daughter's school this weekend. Those awkward displays of burgeoning (or failing) talent were beautiful. I have never seen so many brave young people. I watched one little girl sing "Yesterday" by the Beatles. She fought her nerves the entire time--stopping to fight tears, dropping words, and still managing to finish. I haven't even seen that many grown ups present themselves so vulnerably and courageously.
10. Love. Joy. Any moment that makes those things blossom in my heart and any moment that marks loss or transition relating to those things. My blog posts have run the gamut from self-indulgent to self-deprecating, but what I want to share the most is love. Like I said to someone this week, life is hard, but I would rather live celebrating its good moments. I hope that comes through on this blog. My life mission is to connect with others, make their living a better experience than it might have been otherwise. I hope that all the joys and trials of life that I have chosen to so neatly pen here in this blog are an element of that desire to love, share love, and be loved.
Happy reading! And as ever, thanks for coming back here again and again.
Showing posts with label blogging. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blogging. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Readership: I See You
My husband connected my blog to a stats program so I can catch a glimpse of who reads the blog (or rather, where the blog is being read). I don't indulge in checking the updated numbers very regularly--maybe twice a month. In part, I don't want to become the kind of self-conscious writer that needs the numbers to provide positive reinforcement. But, lately I have become surprisingly tickled at the growing readership of this little blog. There have been posts that have been read 200 times and others that have been read 40. Some pages have had just a few visits. Frankly, I am honored that anyone reads at all, much less returns to read regularly.
Readers come from as close as my American city of residence to as far away as Iran. While many readers are those who already know me on a personal level, I have begun to attract readers of whom I have no real knowledge. And, as naive as this may sound, I just don't know why. What kind of appeal does my blog have to someone in Iran? Who is/was this reader?
Periodically, as someone urges me to update a topic (Chester's fans miss him awfully) or writes to comment about specific posts, I wonder if I should eventually join the bloggers that monetize (attach advertising) to the blog. After all, how pleasant would it be to earn a meager income doing something I enjoy? But intimacy is lost on those grander designed and ad-flanked blogs. Still, I don't know if I am missing some kind of opportunity or journey by not marketing this blog more than I do. And I hesitate not just in part of losing the perceived level of warmth that some readers claim to feel here, but something my mother would likely say: Monetizing and marketing this blog might just be, well, tacky.
Here, I must digress a bit. Readers in the United States are well familiar with the term tacky, but for those that live out of this amazing country, tacky means gauche or tasteless. For those of us who are born and bred in the South, tacky exceeds this definition; it is a sin. It's social death. Potentially, we could lose all sense of self. Tacky isn't just wearing white after Labor Day (some still adhere to this, yes). Our use of tacky indicates you may as well wear a floor-length white tulle gown to your daughter's wedding. (And only a southerner could use this as an example, I'm sure.)
Of course, over at http://thepioneerwoman.com/ one can see that writer Ree Drummond has become enormously successful. And she started much the way I did: she had something to say and wrote about personal experience in an intimate and direct way. I envy Drummond for her recent appearance in The New Yorker, and while she receives a certain degree of criticism for having gone from humble to high roller in income and tangible marks of success, I congratulate her for finding something she did well and making a place in the world doing so. Good for this mother of four who has found a way to pad her wallet in the process--pad being a relative term as she has earned about a million dollars in the last year!
I am, however, the kind of person who does not expect that kind of success to find me or for me to carve it. Unfortunately, I am the kind of person who labels that kind of success as "something for other people, something I was not meant for or could not become." Perhaps I am wrong. It might be nice to be wrong, in fact. But I did not start this blog with aspirations of million dollar readership and I won't deign to delude myself with such aspirations, either. If you remember from my first post, http://cafecatiche.blogspot.com/2010/02/welcome-to-catiches.html, I had this to say about my desire to write publicly: I was "a mother with small children, a writer and artist re-establishing herself after multiple life changes." I had even chosen a namesake from an unseen character in my favorite novel. So this is how I have seen myself, as somewhat invisible and in transition.
But perhaps I digress again. Readership is to be celebrated. You read this likely because you either identify with my words or find them to be a curious window into someone else's world. You are either enlightened, entertained, or informed. (And if you are repulsed, go away and oblige me by not returning.) And I write because I have something to say. This week, I was amazed to realize that I have finally created a niche for myself--I am a 21st century writer who blogs, a mommy blogger, if you will, even though I despise the term. Interestingly enough, this is how I have earned my place in history. Until the blogosphere implodes, a record of my existence is "out there". My voice is engraved in binary code. I am part of a movement, perhaps.
To my readers, who keep returning and reading this blog. Thank you. I wonder what you are thinking. I added an email link to the blog for the purpose of getting feedback from those who are not connected onto blogger, who have not listed themselves as followers, and who aren't linked with me on Facebook. Thank you again. I see you. I see you all.
Readers come from as close as my American city of residence to as far away as Iran. While many readers are those who already know me on a personal level, I have begun to attract readers of whom I have no real knowledge. And, as naive as this may sound, I just don't know why. What kind of appeal does my blog have to someone in Iran? Who is/was this reader?
Periodically, as someone urges me to update a topic (Chester's fans miss him awfully) or writes to comment about specific posts, I wonder if I should eventually join the bloggers that monetize (attach advertising) to the blog. After all, how pleasant would it be to earn a meager income doing something I enjoy? But intimacy is lost on those grander designed and ad-flanked blogs. Still, I don't know if I am missing some kind of opportunity or journey by not marketing this blog more than I do. And I hesitate not just in part of losing the perceived level of warmth that some readers claim to feel here, but something my mother would likely say: Monetizing and marketing this blog might just be, well, tacky.
Here, I must digress a bit. Readers in the United States are well familiar with the term tacky, but for those that live out of this amazing country, tacky means gauche or tasteless. For those of us who are born and bred in the South, tacky exceeds this definition; it is a sin. It's social death. Potentially, we could lose all sense of self. Tacky isn't just wearing white after Labor Day (some still adhere to this, yes). Our use of tacky indicates you may as well wear a floor-length white tulle gown to your daughter's wedding. (And only a southerner could use this as an example, I'm sure.)
Of course, over at http://thepioneerwoman.com/ one can see that writer Ree Drummond has become enormously successful. And she started much the way I did: she had something to say and wrote about personal experience in an intimate and direct way. I envy Drummond for her recent appearance in The New Yorker, and while she receives a certain degree of criticism for having gone from humble to high roller in income and tangible marks of success, I congratulate her for finding something she did well and making a place in the world doing so. Good for this mother of four who has found a way to pad her wallet in the process--pad being a relative term as she has earned about a million dollars in the last year!
I am, however, the kind of person who does not expect that kind of success to find me or for me to carve it. Unfortunately, I am the kind of person who labels that kind of success as "something for other people, something I was not meant for or could not become." Perhaps I am wrong. It might be nice to be wrong, in fact. But I did not start this blog with aspirations of million dollar readership and I won't deign to delude myself with such aspirations, either. If you remember from my first post, http://cafecatiche.blogspot.com/2010/02/welcome-to-catiches.html, I had this to say about my desire to write publicly: I was "a mother with small children, a writer and artist re-establishing herself after multiple life changes." I had even chosen a namesake from an unseen character in my favorite novel. So this is how I have seen myself, as somewhat invisible and in transition.
But perhaps I digress again. Readership is to be celebrated. You read this likely because you either identify with my words or find them to be a curious window into someone else's world. You are either enlightened, entertained, or informed. (And if you are repulsed, go away and oblige me by not returning.) And I write because I have something to say. This week, I was amazed to realize that I have finally created a niche for myself--I am a 21st century writer who blogs, a mommy blogger, if you will, even though I despise the term. Interestingly enough, this is how I have earned my place in history. Until the blogosphere implodes, a record of my existence is "out there". My voice is engraved in binary code. I am part of a movement, perhaps.
To my readers, who keep returning and reading this blog. Thank you. I wonder what you are thinking. I added an email link to the blog for the purpose of getting feedback from those who are not connected onto blogger, who have not listed themselves as followers, and who aren't linked with me on Facebook. Thank you again. I see you. I see you all.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Breaking the Silence
When I am quiet on Café Catiche, it is not because I cannot think of anything to say—I have, in fact, the opposite problem. There is much to say, much to write, much to digest. I simply cannot isolate one topic due to the complete merging of so many events that at one time seemed to be completely disconnected and the ridiculously fast pace in which these ideas have morphed into something else. The other problem is that certain aspects of myself I would rather not share, those things seeming to make me more vulnerable than I am already here. Ironic, isn’t it, because the truthful, intimate nature of a good post is what draws the reader to empathize or relate, to receive an impression in some way. It is why you are here reading this.
Tonight marks the completion of a life-changing week, one in which epiphanies were made, losses marked, and progress achieved. I lay tossing about in bed tonight and finally succumbed to rising for pre-dawn hot chocolate and the chance to put on paper the words and phrases that plague me. Some ideas are mundane—like the visit to the clinic where I was told I have been walking around for weeks with severe ear infections (well, that explains a lot), but the biggest was a heartbreaking and humble apology from my ex-husband. I have been intrigued by something else, too--a recent obsession with Deadwood, namely the characters whose curious blend of propriety and malevolence is reflected in often prose-like Victorian speech. Of course, I would find entertainment in this because certain people in my life seem to mirror exactly that union of disparate concepts within their own psyches. And my curious draw to the use of language on the show (not all characters speak so mellifluously, at least half are simply prone to callous and profane discourse) has sparked my interest in yet another topic—the way we express ourselves, particularly in the 21st Century world of texting.
So, having broken the silence here, and having said much and nothing at all, I think I should succumb to the soft whuffling of my husband’s slumber, nuzzle under the covers, and try to find comfort in sleep once again. I need more rest (and antibiotics). Ideas noted, I will likely explore the above concepts later. Here are, however, words directly quoted from Deadwood. Pardon the f-bomb, please. Al Swearengen, who manages a bar and brothel, and whose characteristic offensive language was surprisingly my motivator for facing the world again after my daughter’s therapist gave us each a frank talk, speaks to a printer whose shop and presses have been broken and ransacked as a measure of retaliation. I needed to hear this, even in it's rawness.
“Pain or damage don't end the world. Or despair or fucking beatings. The world ends when you're dead. Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man... and give some back.”
Tonight marks the completion of a life-changing week, one in which epiphanies were made, losses marked, and progress achieved. I lay tossing about in bed tonight and finally succumbed to rising for pre-dawn hot chocolate and the chance to put on paper the words and phrases that plague me. Some ideas are mundane—like the visit to the clinic where I was told I have been walking around for weeks with severe ear infections (well, that explains a lot), but the biggest was a heartbreaking and humble apology from my ex-husband. I have been intrigued by something else, too--a recent obsession with Deadwood, namely the characters whose curious blend of propriety and malevolence is reflected in often prose-like Victorian speech. Of course, I would find entertainment in this because certain people in my life seem to mirror exactly that union of disparate concepts within their own psyches. And my curious draw to the use of language on the show (not all characters speak so mellifluously, at least half are simply prone to callous and profane discourse) has sparked my interest in yet another topic—the way we express ourselves, particularly in the 21st Century world of texting.
So, having broken the silence here, and having said much and nothing at all, I think I should succumb to the soft whuffling of my husband’s slumber, nuzzle under the covers, and try to find comfort in sleep once again. I need more rest (and antibiotics). Ideas noted, I will likely explore the above concepts later. Here are, however, words directly quoted from Deadwood. Pardon the f-bomb, please. Al Swearengen, who manages a bar and brothel, and whose characteristic offensive language was surprisingly my motivator for facing the world again after my daughter’s therapist gave us each a frank talk, speaks to a printer whose shop and presses have been broken and ransacked as a measure of retaliation. I needed to hear this, even in it's rawness.
“Pain or damage don't end the world. Or despair or fucking beatings. The world ends when you're dead. Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man... and give some back.”
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Facebook vs. Blogger
It's quiet here at Cafe Catiche. I'm a little busy for the usual posts; I have been working on a research paper about blogging, of all things. The best part so far was an interview I conducted with the writer of The Extended Table, who complained about the nature of Facebook as an addictive, cheap, time-suck when he should be writing his blog.
"If Facebook is a whore," he said, "then blogger is the girl you bring home to meet your mother."
Thanks, pal. Can't say I ever thought of it that way.
"If Facebook is a whore," he said, "then blogger is the girl you bring home to meet your mother."
Thanks, pal. Can't say I ever thought of it that way.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Blog Worthy
We have nicknames for certain people in our lives: Kenny G, Bigfoot, He Who Must Not Be Named, Hey Baby… just to give you an example of at least four of them. My daughter, without blinking an eye, just asked me if I had seen Hey Baby recently. The fact that this rolled off her tongue so easily sent me howling with laughter, but she wasn’t kidding.
“Really,” she wanted to know, “Where is he these days? Whatever happened to Hey Baby?”
We called him Hey Baby because of how he crooned those words to each female that happened into his presence. To get an idea of how much of a problem this was, take this example:
My husband once told him lightly, “I wouldn’t trust you with my wife.”
Hey Baby’s response? “I wouldn’t trust myself with your wife either.”
Let’s just say that Hey Baby is most definitely blog worthy, even just for his nickname alone. When I asked if my husband had any recent news about Kenny G and Bigfoot, he chuckled about that being worth a blog, but in this case, to protect the innocent, I’ll just stop with that reference.
It’s funny what triggers a blog. Mine are usually inspired by well-timed conversations. There is plenty to write these days, but often I write without publishing it. Some things are just too private or perhaps, I save it to be reworked. I have an article I wrote last year that has expanded and collapsed, been decimated and restructured, and will cycle again through that series of punishments. It may never see the light of day, or if it does, it just might be two short paragraphs for a year’s worth of thought. It’s about the Hooters mothers on the playground one day last year.
Yeah, definitely blog worthy.
“Really,” she wanted to know, “Where is he these days? Whatever happened to Hey Baby?”
We called him Hey Baby because of how he crooned those words to each female that happened into his presence. To get an idea of how much of a problem this was, take this example:
My husband once told him lightly, “I wouldn’t trust you with my wife.”
Hey Baby’s response? “I wouldn’t trust myself with your wife either.”
Let’s just say that Hey Baby is most definitely blog worthy, even just for his nickname alone. When I asked if my husband had any recent news about Kenny G and Bigfoot, he chuckled about that being worth a blog, but in this case, to protect the innocent, I’ll just stop with that reference.
It’s funny what triggers a blog. Mine are usually inspired by well-timed conversations. There is plenty to write these days, but often I write without publishing it. Some things are just too private or perhaps, I save it to be reworked. I have an article I wrote last year that has expanded and collapsed, been decimated and restructured, and will cycle again through that series of punishments. It may never see the light of day, or if it does, it just might be two short paragraphs for a year’s worth of thought. It’s about the Hooters mothers on the playground one day last year.
Yeah, definitely blog worthy.
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