Alright. Let's get this nonsense out of the way right off. And I'll warn you up-front: I ain't proofreading this, because "editing" this post would probably mean deleting this is gut-struck self-disgust. Buyer, be warned.

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A fellow blogger recently asked me if I ever think about quitting blogging. My response was, and the truth is, that lately, I assume every post is my last. For whatever reasons. Lack of interest, lack of time, lack of quality, lack of mattering (or a feeling of mattering), all the usual blogger hand-wringing. Fact is, I probably actually have quit several times in the last year. I didn't say so, because I knew I was probably lying to myself, which is either better or worse than lying to you.

What has kept me coming back is the recognition that whatever post I last posted probably sucked and that when the archivists come along to pass judgment on you and I, that last post would be a horrible final note. Like ending a symphony with the back firing of a lawn mower. (A symphony, in my case, composed mostly of hand-powered mowers and downed telephone wires, but what have you.)

So I've kind of been in this not-sure-where-I'm-coming-from, not-sure-where-I'm-going-to limbo for a while now. Sure, I'm still reading, but maybe not as much as I have in previous years, and I'm certainly not saying as much about what I'm reading. Facts.

So then John Ettore added a comment to my now previously most recent post (a post which, really, could have been a not-so-bad closing note for the blog--an uptick of anticipation is certainly nothing bad), and his comment--and compliment--had the remarkable effect of reminding me of why I bothered getting into blogging in the first place. (Or at least, I assume--I went back to the first post to this blog, read a couple lines of it, made myself ill, and closed the tab. I got the sense that I didn't really start this as a book blog, though a book blog is what this blog quickly became. Also I noticed that that first post was barely almost four years ago, noticed that I referred to another online journal of mine in that post, a journal which at that time had reached the thousand post mark, and then I noticed that this blog is approaching the thousand post mark, and I got more ill, and I actually went back and re-opened the tab just to close it again.)

Point being, what John reminded me is, and what that reason for blogging is, is that I've got a passion for fiction and that that's something other people ought to know about. Which, in its plump simplicity, is enough to convince me not to shut this thing down for at least a while longer yet. Lucky you, you guys! Right? Am I right?

Don't answer that.

Of course, none of that does anything to nullify or eliminate any of the sources of gut-wrenching guilt that accompany every half-hearted post, every one-line entry, every radio-silent week (or two) (or three). But what it does do is it leaves the door open for a whole-hearted post to follow that shitty one, for a multiple-paragraph entry to bite the ankle of the short-stack post that preceded it, for a burst of music and voice to dissipate, for a spell, the long-held static fattening the airwaves. What it means is that there's more chance than zero chance that some of what's in my head might make someone reach for a book that they might not have reached for otherwise. What it means is that, at least every now and then, I'm letting my blind, dumb, super-sized passion guide my hand, and that every now and then, it's doing so so I do something that, in my gut, at least feels moderately important, and, in its best moments, both fulfilling and enjoyable. Hopefully for at least one or two other people than me. What this does not mean, on the other hand, is that I've got to start writing finely-tuned 5,000 word critical expositions, or that I've got to start podcasting, or that I need to start doing feature-length interviews with famous people I'd rather shit my pants than sit in a room (for sitting in a room with famous people is likely to make me simply up and shit my pants, and in the choice of both or one, kids, I choose the one). That's a bunch of stuff I'd do, sure, if I didn't have all this other stuff I like to do, such as work for a living (well, okay) and go to school (I can haz graphic design skilz!) and look out windows (oh, shiny). That's also stuff I'd do if I were trying to "make it." Whatever "it" is, I think I'm cool without it, because I've already got what I've got and I think with the right approach, that can be just jim dandy.

Aw, heartfelt, I know. I'll stop now. But, to PowerPoint it up for those of you who skip to the end (as I often do), here's the deal:

• I'm doing this thing


• I'm doing other things too


• You do the voodoo you do


• Cool