I’ve made a giant idiot of myself. I recently told you about living without the internet. Well, yesterday it happened again. And because it happens often, I expressed mild displeasure to The Internet Connection People on the phone yesterday. Since they didn’t send anyone yesterday to fix the problem, I was unable to post my Sunday quote. I called today, mildly confrontational this time. He came, he saw, he plugged the wire to the router that makes it all happen, which I had unplugged, albeit unintentionally, while cleaning. All I could do is smile like an idiot.
I have not been right in the head, though. More than usual. Things get very festive in India from August to December, so if you want to get anything done, you have endless delays, endless literal cacophony and too much happiness around. Not the best time to be putting together a self-absorbed book of essays, with topics like Of Grief and Of Loneliness. I aimed to have the book out on the 15th, having worked on it on and off for 4 months. But, after reading thousands of words of some whiny, moany millenial, I feel I’m going slightly mad. It finally happened. I write about overcoming self-loathing, but clearly I’m not doing well in that department.
What has this got to do with the title of this essay? Ah, you know the drill by now. You know we never get to business unless we have to. You see, I feel like an idiot not only because I did something idiotic. I feel like an idiot because these are the very idiotic things that never happen to me. I never call or ask for help unless I’ve gone through the whole thing many, many times. I prefer being DIY. I aim to be self-sufficient. I don’t ask for help unless I earn it. I don’t like to keep people waiting. But, yesterday, I didn’t put up a quote here, which really made me feel like I’ve failed myself and this blog in some way.
I frequently have readers bestowing me with the badge of prolificity. I hardly see it myself. I’m glad if I can get two posts in, in a week. With three, it’s a good week. With one, it’s a pass. With none, I might as well give up. The less frequent I am, the less likely it is for people to turn up. I don’t do other social media, so I can’t just sign off with a tweet and tell people, “I am alive! I am still interested in trying to interest you!” I follow loads of people who are much more worthy of the badge than me. Some even blog everyday, sometimes twice a day. They publicise in other places, write posts for other people. If I don’t see them, or even my other favourite reads who don’t publish as often, I miss them. Sometimes, if they suddenly pop up after months, I am reminded of them, but I don’t feel I can have the same sort of rapport with my comments. There are some who’ve stopped blogging at all, and I miss them.
I don’t know if that makes me an ideal reader, but I am less than an ideal blogger. Especially now, when I am swimming in my own essays, but not publishing them if they are “good for the book”. I am also not reading as many blogs as I could, as I use that time to work on the book. I really want to have it out before NaNoWriMo swallows my potential readership of their free time, but clearly that isn’t going to happen. I want to be swallowed up myself, writing that rom-com-spy novella I told you about, but I must maintain fidelity towards my blog-book. Then, I very much hope to go back to blogging like a normal person.
I really want to blog like a normal person. I want to try haikus and limericks. I want to, just, be able to come up with a poem, like they do in poetry challenges. I want to take pictures of sunrises and sunsets. I want to take pictures of what I eat for breakfast, which means I will, at least, be swallowing my food properly. That’s the kind of blogger I think about when I read the word “prolific”. Not someone who writes essays about existential crises, having been on one for as long as she has existed.
Are you a prolific blogger? Do you think it is important?