Validation

(WARNING: the following post is about writing and blogging and my writing and my blogging and I agree, there's nothing more boring and self-serving than a blogger who blogs about his/her blogging. So if you don't want to continue reading, believe me, I understand. There will be some whinging. Also, there's going to be some stuff about the blogosphere in general. Rest assured that if you're someone I've conversed with, DM'ed, emailed, whose work I've expressed admiration for and supported, or whose blog I've commented on, I'm most likely not referring to you. Also, rest assured that PetCobra's normal slate of obscure references involving 1970's sci-fi movies, bizarre ruminations about various body parts, and posts about my fear of gibbons will resume next week.)

Irritalation. That is a word - well, it is now - and it describes my state of mind this week. 

I didn't like my day job. That's no secret. But I liked that I was good at it, and I liked that I always tried to be good at it. And I liked that I always tried to go about the finding and recruiting of candidates in a way that was different...more me, less of what everyone else tried to do or be. 

Now I have a new day job, and I like it very much, thanks. And despite my penchant for goofy bullshit, I am dead fucking serious about writing. Writing. There's something almost sacred about it to me. No, not almost. Writing to me is bleeding all over the screen and the page. I want you to feel what I write in your guts; a stomach punch, a stitch in your side. I want you to look at what I do and see something unique, different. Me. I want to be able to ask that question that every writer should be able to ask his readers and his fellow writers: can you do what I do? And I want that answer to always be no. I approach writing a post like Tiger Woods approaches the 12th hole at Torrey Pines South. It's going to take all I've got, and I'm going to give it all I've got. 

And of course, when it comes to blogging, not everyone takes my admittedly Ahab-ish, demented approach, chasing that elusive perfect post 'round Perdition's flames before giving it up. And that's fine; the world needs James North Pattersons too - or, if we're talking about the parenting blogosphere, well, everybody loves Raymond, and there's a shitload of Raymonds out there. Something I posted on Facebook: "I'd probably be more successful if I wrote sitcom-ish, mediocre tripe." And yes, it's disheartening to see some get book deals and movie deals, when you know that you absolutely can do what they do. But you don't. Because while you can, something within you won't allow it.

Writing's a business. I get that. I know what sells. And what sells is generally safe and mostly harmless. I'm working on some stuff that will help pay the bills, stuff that will be challenging simply because I can't take Me out of the equation. (I won't have to; you'll get Me, but a less, er, PetCobra-ish version.)

That's the "irrita-" part.

The "-lation": all of a sudden, the floodgates opened up at DadCentric. Thousands and thousands of hits, new readers, people getting a chance to read a bunch of like-minded guys who think like me, who aren't satisfied with the same old stuff. I was told years ago by one of my English profs that great writing finds an audience. And many of them won't come back; they'll decide it's not for them, and move on to the next blog. But many of them will. And while I know this - that the only person you should really ever write for is the one you see in the mirror...still.