Day 8

Latest acquaintance.

I was chatting to Susanne on skype, sitting at my desk. Antagonist was sprawled out on the sofa, examining her nails in a manner meant to indicate that she was bored, and a little pissed off. She doesn’t like it when I talk to other people.

            ‘You do know you’re writing every day, don’t you?’ Susanne said.

            ‘No I’m not!’ I replied, categorically. A little defensively, even.

            ‘Of course you are! You’re writing your blog!’

            ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘that. That’s not writing.’

            Susanne gave me a look that was half confusion and half admonishment. ‘It is!’ she insisted. ‘And it’s wonderful!’

            ‘Thank you,’ I said, in a small voice, as Antagonist emitted a snort of derision. I told her to behave herself, in my sternest tone. Because Susanne is wonderful; having friends as supportive as this is wonderful. And Antagonist may get away with bullying me sometimes, but she’s not allowed to mess with my friends.

The thing is, for all of her faults, I don’t think it’s fair to blame Antagonist for everything, and this paradoxical defensiveness is certainly not her doing. (I will resist the temptation of inventing yet another character; I’ve already been accused of schizophrenic tendencies once this week). It’s all me, and perhaps I’m a bit of a snob, and I don’t consider my blog real writing. I don’t think of it as literature. I have this grand idea of the literary works that I will produce, and my blog posts just don’t fit in.

I started this blog mostly as a measure of self-discipline, as a way to make myself publicly accountable, but I hadn’t really expected that there would actually be a public to be accountable to. I’m surprised, every day, by how many people read my posts. I’m surprised by the comments, the honest, personal responses to the things I write. The expressions of support. It is incredibly gratifying, and moving, and valuable. Every day, there are moments when I question what I’m doing, and every day there is something – a comment, an email, a phonecall – that renews my faith in it and gives me the courage to carry on. People have told me they look forward to reading my posts every day. People have said that they can see their own struggles in the things I write about, and that it helps them, and even gives them hope. They have urged me to keep going, to keep writing. And I never expected any of this, but it’s happening, nonetheless, and it is wonderful.

But is it writing? Is it literature? The Oxford dictionary defines literature as “Written works, especially those considered of superior or lasting artistic merit”. Which doesn’t really help. Written works: sure. But superior or lasting artistic merit is very hard to call. And considered by whom? A blog, on the other hand, according to Merriam-Webster, is “a Web site on which someone writes about personal opinions, activities, and experiences”: nothing particularly offensive about that. Except that, by the very nature of the internet and the blog concept itself, everyone can be a blogger. Not everyone can be a writer. Maybe I am a snob, but I will not apologise for this opinion. Not everyone can be an electrician, or a politician, or an economist; each one requires a particular set of skills and not everyone has them. And writing is no exception. It takes a lot more than putting words down on a page to make you a writer.

And therein lies the paradox: Because I actually do have those skills. And even though I’m ready to dismiss my blog posts as not writing, I never just put words down on a page. I’ve been told, frequently, that I’m not a blogger: my posts for This Reluctant Yogi have been criticised for being too long, too complex, too literary for the attention span of the average blog reader. And it’s criticism that I accept readily: I’ve chosen the blog format for its immediacy and ease of use, but I’m not really blogging, as such. I put my entire self into everything I write, for both Yogi and 100 days, exactly as I do when I’m writing a short story; I agonise over my choice of words, I edit and edit again. Each post takes me hours to write, and then I often dream about it at night, revising sentences in my sleep. I’ll never attract the thousands of visitors that I, presumably, could, if my posts were shorter, snappier, a bit more reader-friendly. And I’m OK with that. Because I am a writer and though I’m not entirely free of vanity, it’s not hits that I’m after, but readers. People who will read my work all the way through and won’t mind that it’s long, and who’ll find something in it that touches them, directly.

Which, unexpectedly, is exactly what’s happening. And perhaps wonderful Susanne is right, after all, and I can slowly, reluctantly, bring myself round to concede that what I’m doing is writing, and it’s just as real and meaningful as those works of superior artistic merit that I will surely produce in the next 92 days, and beyond. I am writing every day, and people are reading, and if this crazy adventure of mine comes to nothing more than that, it will be enough. 

In keeping with the tradition for long posts: day 8 isn’t over yet. Because today was also the day my kickstarter project for 100 days went live, and I cannot close this post without mentioning it. Susanne was with me, via skype, when I did it this morning; my hand literally shook when I clicked on the button to launch. I was incredibly nervous. But, once again, I was amazed by the support I got. There are five backers already, and my project was featured as a staff pick on kickstarter’s “new and noteworthy” section. And so another countdown has begun: 28 more days to reach my funding target. If they are anything like today, there’s no telling what might happen.

Thank you Spyro, Melina, Aliki, Johnny and Thalbir for your support and your generosity. Thank you to everyone who to took the time to read and share and helped spread the word today. And thank you Eleni, for the fish and the trousers and the victory dance. Let’s hope we dance again tomorrow.