Egads, I'm an awful blogger! When it comes to frequency, that is. I know I sound defensive when I say, "But if I'm going to write something, it's damn well going to be for my book." Other authors blog all the time and turn out lovely books at the same time. Sadly, I don't know how they do it. Not and have an actual life as well.
This may seem a little paranoid on my part, but it feels a lot like the corporate-hours-creep that I experienced in my former marketing career. When I started working in my late teens and twenties, 40 hour weeks were the norm. Overtime meant a couple hours here and there. For the next fifteen years, I would feel and experience the expectations of my superiors creeping up along with the numbers of hours I put in to satisfy them. Forty became forty-five, then fifty. By the time I quit corporate life for good, I was working fifty to sixty hours per week.
Writers, of all people, have a need for space inside their heads, large vast empty spaces in which the imagination can roam and explore and make stuff up. I work far harder at writing than at any corporate job I've had, yet I still feel guilty that I don't blog, that I don't publish articles in magazines, that I don't write more stuff and keep my name out in the zeitgeist while the seed of a new book is germinating and taking form.
But so many writers are answering the call of the creep! They are blogging and posting and commenting and sending enews and platforming themselves to the point of mental exhaustion. I think. Or else they just have a whole lot more brain cells than I do, which I wouldn't rule out as a possibility.
And of course, writing this, I feel like this generation's Andy Rooney. My eyebrows have even started to do that weird curly thing. Am I bad tempered? Bad mannered? Lazy? Incompetent? Whining?
Oh, probably. Excuse me. I need to get back to writing my book!