Cringing in the Spotlight

By , July 24, 2014

We’re all friends here, right?

I have to confess that recent blog posts are not up to my idealized standards.

As I’ve mentioned before, I aspire to offer more than diary entries on this blog I try to offer essays on our life and outlook, to give you, the reader, something worth reading—a bit of insight, information, advice, or, at very least, a cautionary tale.

Sometimes I manage that, but often I don’t. Lately, I feel like I haven’t done particularly well.

I blame the lapse on a couple of different causes: preoccupation with spending time with Aly and Michelle, fishing and crabbing, and the usual operation of the “homestead.” I’m mulling over the larger issues, but I’m not finding the right words to express my thoughts.

Successful or not, I’m serving an average of some 150 viewers each day. Often, daily viewership jumps up into the 200s; sometimes it drops below 100.

So, imagine my confusion, then horror, to see that the blog received 365 hits a few days ago.

I had to assume that high number was some sort of reporting glitch. It came on a day when I hadn’t posted. The previous day’s post would never qualify as a gem. It had to be an anomaly.

The next day, when Michelle and Aly brought home the day’s mail, I found a possible explanation. The latest issue of Michelle’s and my alumni magazine carried a notice I’d submitted last quarter, announcing the publication of the audiobook version of my book, Sacred Coffee: A “Homesteader’s” Paradigm.

I’d never supplied any information on our activities to the college before, so we’d never been mentioned in the magazine until now. I assume people started searching the Web for us and found our Website and blog, smack dab in the middle of my inspiration’s ebb. They found me, but not when I’m at my best.

Isn’t this typical? I’m forever conflicted between trying to promote my work and enjoying the anonymity that living in the woods provides. The spotlight, however small, turns on me just at the moment when I’m in the outhouse, metaphorically speaking. I feel like I’m crying, “Look at me—but not right this minute!” I ask for it, then receive it at an awkward moment.

I suppose it’s nothing to worry about. This is me, each and every time, for better or worse. Still, I better get to work editing those better essays . . . .

 

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