All right, here I am. On my blog. Blogging. But let me be honest about a couple of things.
First, it is an ugly word: blog. Blogger worse still, an insult spat by a cranky man at kids who cut across his lawn: rotten little bloggers. Blog spot, don't even get me started. I think stains, embarrassing ones.
And, yet, viewed another way, a writerly way, the word blog could be quite effective in its very ugliness. A word someone I've been spending a good deal of time with over the past year -- H. P. Lovecraft -- might well have appreciated, perhaps ranking it among his favourites: dank; effulgence; foetid.
Second...this blogging, well, it's weird. Journaling for an invisible -- hey, a cosmic -- readership? Like Lovecraft, I've always tended towards the private, and like him, too, I've never been an early adopter. I can only imagine his horror -- prolific diarist and writer of letters -- to know that we post our diaries for the world to see. An affront to his New England sensibilities and personal insecurities, to be sure.
Yet, here we are. Both of us late to the party and inwardly grumbling, as usual.
