There. I said it. I acknowledged the 800 pound gorilla in the room. And, his name is George. George, the 800 pound gorilla.
I am the one that writes about my daughter and what she does and how she has impacted my life. Because, well, I don't have time for baby books or scrap books. But, I can take 30 minutes of my lunch hour and blog about her silliness. I also blog about my love of butter and my joys of being in the kitchen. And, on top of all of that, I vent my frustrations here, because I don't feel they fit into either on of those spaces. And, Yes, another confession - the traffic on ALL those damn blogs effects me. It affects how I write and what I write. And, yes, the traffic or should I say, the lack there of, effects me.
I am probably more curious that a cat. I lost a reader two weeks ago to my main blog. It crushed me. I wanted to know why. Was it something I wrote? Because, honestly, in that space I am more benign that vanilla pudding. And, then this week, out of no where, I gained 3 followers. I have 40 now. And, I treasure each and everyone of of those 40 followers. But where it gets confusing is when I look at my RSS feed. I have 56 RSS feed followers. Last week I only had 44. WOW! 12 new followers in a week? Must be a fluke, because, still, it doesn't feel good enough.
Beyond that, anything to do with stats is rather humorous to me. The key words they used to find me and what posts they spent the most time on. But, that still, after all of that, doesn't' silence George. Nope. He still sits there peeling bananas and flappin' his lips. Because, in looking at those stats, I discovered that when I actually write, I mean, labor over writing something, because, well, I am not the best writer, and it gets nothing. No comments or in some cases, very, very, very few. Which in my mind equates to no recognition. And it hurts and makes me question why I even bother. But, then I post a beautiful picture of my Mayhem Maker or post something silly that she said and the comments and the traffic on my blog go through the roof. And, while that should make me happy, it doesn't. All it does, for some reason is just reinforce those feeling that perhaps my writing really does suck.
Which leads me to think, that in spite of the fact that I have been blogging for almost 3 years, first privately and then for the last year or so publicly, those numbers, up there in paragraph 2. They suck. And they provide no validation at all for what it is I am doing. And, in reality, what they do most of all, is remind me of high school. Yep. Those torturous locker filled halls, musty classrooms and the quest for popularity. Popularity that never came and was never achievable. Re-enforcement that I will always and forever be the fat kid with dorky glasses in the last row, blending in with the wall. Really, that is how blog land feels to me most days. As I bounce from blog to blog, and read about the benefits, the glory and the accolades. As I watch my twitter feed fill with complaints about many were approached by a PR firm - forgetting that some of us have never even ever been approached. And, just like high school, I feel like, once again, I'm blending into the walls.
And, then there is that one time. Just like high school and that fateful night that you just once hung out with the Homecoming queen. That one time where big blogger tweets you back or sends you and email in response to your comment. And, you get all giddy and light headed. But, when the dust settles there you are again, back in your dark corner, left with the company of the dust bunnies. And, you realize that a lot of lip service is paid to spreading the love. There is a lot of talk about building community, masked with sense of meaning and understanding. And, for a brief moment you mistake mutual admiration for nothing more than what was originally meant as politeness. And the feeling you are left with, the one that sits in your stomach like a rock, mirrors that same one you had 15 years ago when the boy you liked asked you to a dance, only to find out it was really nothing more than a practical joke.
But, really, at the end of the day, I am none the worse for the wear. I made it through high school, heck, I even managed to be sociable in College. And, so, I tell George, no, I scream at George that I am happy. Happy with what I write, happy with the followers I have, and content with my place in blog land. Even though, deep in side, in the darkest corner, where the dust bunnies hide, it's really not.
So, George, put that in your banana and eat it!