schweblog

I’m compelled to be a good writer. It’s like you’re all bums on the street and I have to give–give–you something. Anything. But it has to be a good anything. An anything that means something and has value and will serve you well when you’re in your darkest hour. Not just mental pocket change, but a blank check of endless knowledge and discovery.

I never write the silly, trivial, personal stuff in my blog. If I did, I would be shortchanging you, the reader. I have to give. I have to pull out my heart and put it on a platter and garnish it before I can serve it up to you. To just pull it out and serve it to you while it was still pumping and bleeding would make me a poor host. Your reading experience has to be gourmet.

And it’s a blessing at the same time that it’s a curse. I will sit and I will read about the seemingly boring occurrences of another person and it interests me. It engages me. You may have just served me the mental equivalent of a cheap cheeseburger, but it tasted good, dammit–the buns were stale and the cheese was moldy and the meat was gristly, but your life makes my mouth water. Sometimes I’m afraid that no matter how many fix’ins I include, no matter how I prepare all of this, it’s just bland. Analytical. Dry.

Can you relate to me? Do you sit down and find yourself inextricably bound in my shoes, experiencing my trials and my tribulations as you read? Or is it like watching one of those pitiful infomercials late at night where the host clearly believes in the product he’s selling–he’s excited and so jubilant!–and he’s trying to convey that to you: You NEED this product! Look what it does for me. I may be on commission, but my actions are a sacrifice because I could just hoard all of these products to myself and live in a permanent euphoria of blending and ice-crushing and easy dips. Don’t you see what I’m doing for you? Don’t you realize it?

Don’t you see what I’m doing for you? Don’t you realize it?