There is almost no way to create this post without it feeling incredibly whiny and pathetic. I have tried to keep the negative emotions that appear in this blog limited to things like anger at videogames and a limited amount of permitted My grandmother just died and My country are racist assholes style grief.
What I don’t often have reason to confront is reality when it comes to this blog. I write here, ostensibly as a typical blog – a simple place to dump my thoughts out there. That’s the pleasant lie, where I forward the notion that this is just a place to express opinions for the mere sake of it.
It’s not that, though. Not even though it pretends to be – this blog is an attempt to gain for me something I once had, and once loved. I used to have an audience. When I wrote erotica for audience members – people who were borderline anonymous to me – it was wonderful to know that I was giving something someone they would love, something they would care about.
The Long Live The Queen review gave me one thing I had been avoiding for so long. It showed me a statistic. It showed me how many people had listened to it. As of this moment, there are eight people who have listened to it. There were four when I posted it originally.
I bet I know who you all are.
I bet I talk to you every day.
I bet of the people who do talk to me every day, there are some of you who did not in fact, listen to it. You’ll go check my blog when I tell you about it, but you’re not interested in it. It’s an extension of interacting with me, it’s not a thing worth reading in and of itself.
I had in my mind this vague idea that I’d put stats management on the site and be pleasantly surprised to find I had maybe thirty or forty people following the blog on a regular basis, given that I’ve tried to promote myself on twitter and even had rare, pleasant moments like when a developer retweeted me talking about her game.
I’ve been doing this for fourteen months now. I have posted almost four hundred and fifty times, and the only people reading it are people who I talk to regularly. I wrote a book last year and I think maybe three, four people have read it.
I want to do this for a living. I want to be a writer. I am not going to be those things if the only people who care about my work are people who already care about me, as a person.
I have spent the day going through many stages of grief and self-loathing. I considered saying nothing today, not blogging at all, just stopping posting entirely, not even posting One Stone and cancelling all the scheduled reviews. Just let it go, now that I knew the painful truth that my writing is not even interesting enough to be worth reading to my full circle of friends. It’s tempting.
I don’t think I’ll do that. I think I want to keep producing One Stone. I think I want to keep trying.
But if you don’t mind, I’m going to feel vomitously wretched, depressed, and self-loathing now, realising that my most ambitious hopes of ‘maybe thirty’ were gross and ridiculous exaggerations, parodies of an ego so overinflated that it was off by a factor of almost ten.