le fou, i'm afraid i've been thinking...

...but not about wacky old men.

Well, maybe I have. But I don't want to embarrass them by mentioning any names.

Anyway, another thing I've been thinking about (and at this point, I could use the word "pondering," which invites reminiscing on Pinky and the Brain) is the fact that I am not the prolific blogger I once was.

I've now been blogging for 4 & 1/2 years, and it's been an interesting experience. A predominantly positive experience. A good enough experience that I have kept up with it, posting at least once per month for 54 months, minus October and November 2004, when I inexplicably and temporarily lost interest, and October 2006, when Ed's dad had three heart attacks and we were in the States for a month.

Sure, I've never blogged multiple times per day, so I guess I'm not prolific at all, compared with some people. But I'm not comparing myself with some people, I'm comaring myself with me, and me says that I've blopgosted consistently for 4.5 years now, and that makes me prolific. So there.

However, I don't blog nearly as much as I used to, and I think that's a direct result of my novel-writing. I'll let you in on a little secret: I am not witty. You know those people who come up with the perfect puns and terrific turns-of-phrase on the spot, so much so that others tell them, "Hey, you should be writing this stuff down!"? I'm not one of those people. I have only so much brain power to go around. So when I stumble upon one of those literary gems that sparkle in the dark recesses of my brain's Spare Oom, my first thought is not "blog this."

Actually and unfortunately, my first thought usually is, "How can I turn this into a Facebook status update?" But then I take that impulse and beat it into submission so that I might use that sparkly gem not for the evils of FB-status-updating...

...but for the good of The Story.

When you're a writer and you're writing (which is what you should be doing, if you are a writer), everything is for the good of The Story. Snatches of overheard conversation are for the good of The Story. Every weird dream is for the good of The Story. Every attractive fellow human who has an asymmetrical facial feature is for the good of The Story. Every interesting way of saying something is for the good of The Story.

I think that's why I haven't been blogging as much. I've been pouring all my creative energy into The Story--which, of course, is exactly where it should go!--and letting the blog catch whatever happens to be left, which generally isn't much. I'm not bemoaning or bewailing or becomplaining. Just stating facts--and getting out the thoughts that aren't related to wacky old men.

Another pondering has been what will happen to the blog once I start publishing books. Not that I expect to be overrun by rabid fans scouring the intarwebz for snippets of info about me. However, I do keep in mind that there is enough personal information on this blog that someone could find me if they really wanted to--and connect my name on a book with all the personal info on this blog. So, writer that I am, as I ponder this, I begin having visions of stalkers, and weirdos showing up at my door at 11pm, and identity theft, and manic car chases down I-35, and is there Another Story in here somewhere?

Seriously, I could really scare myself with all these potentialities if I carried on. It wouldn't take much. Not much at all.

*sigh*

Anyway, I'm having thoughts about encryptions and passworded blogs and high-tech security and other fun what-ifs. I guess if I had to, I could delete the blog. All I would lose would be the comments; I back up everything else. But I wouldn't want to lose the comments. I like the comments. I adore the comments. If I were the obsessive type, I would print out the comments and wallpaper my bathroom with them.

Comments?

;o)