“I rather like it. It
recalls snog, the British word for kissing a stranger. A nice echo.”
Embarrassed laughter by
assembled audience.
“Also there's the sense
where it's a web log. I keep my blog because I began at a time when
I kept a boat log.”
“According to the Writer's
Digest, you're suppose to have one if you want to publish. But you're
supposed to write about something other than what you want to
publish!”
“Can't you think of each
post as an essai, in the French sense? An attempt? A brief
questioning into the nature of a subject? A petite picaresque?
Montaigne wrote essays about asses farting.”
“Awful. No. All of that
electronic stuff. I've never read a blog I liked.”
“Maybe they're the best
books being written, ones that read beautifully as complete oeuvres.
Bumfuzzle, I recommend. This guy, trying to sail in a canoe to
South America, after building his boat himself in Mexico. Then
there's this couple, living in a 21-foot Sea Pearl in Argentina. The Secret Life of a Former Prostitute. The Out of Eden Walk. Scarlett Lion. And Tavi, a gift
from the spirit of the age, thank God. But each blog is like ether.
They drift off and disappear, to be mined, in the future, but
cultural archaeologists.”
“What about the comments?
You have to deal with the things people say!”
“And they do say awful
things. Someone once told me to burn in hell. Some else told me I'd
be better off dumping my loser boyfriend. It was not cool. But now,
mainly, I take every comment as a precious gift.”
Even you could comment, for
instance, if you wanted, and I'd love it.
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