I don't know why it's so important for me to be remembered but I guess that's the curse of a writer. You want to be read, devoured, criticised, praised, just anything, as long as you're noticed. It's a cold hard day in hell when a writer isn't read. I've been battling with these feelings for over a year now - it matters it doesn't, it hurts it doesn't, I want to be read, I don't want to be read...The eternal tug of war.
I still remember the things my readers used to say. I'm not going to repeat them here because that would just be pathetic. And I think I'm pretty stocked up in the pathetic department already. But I do remember... Most of it was good, no doubt, but I even cherish the nasty remarks. It just meant I mattered. I made a difference. I know I cannot expect all of the same people back, it was a different era. But I always thought I would find a new readership. And it would mostly be people who know me. Unfortunately, I don't think these people find me very interesting in this space.
What about the ones I don't know yet? Well, I'll never know until they tell me. Maybe I will find a kinship once again, maybe I won't. Regardless I will continue to do the only thing that comes naturally to me, apart from farting of course...
So why the sad ruminations then? I guess at the end of the day I'm still that little girl that used to stand up on my bed pretending it was a stage singing "I have a dolly and her name is Betty..." My dad, grandmother and houseboy were summoned as the evidence (yes as a 4-yr-old I could say evidence but not audience) and they all had to sit down on the floor and clap.
I just don't have an evidence now. Oh well, tomorrow is another shot of tequila.
2 comments:
heh, i just dropped in to tell you i'm adding you to my blogroll. guess i don't have to say, 'let me know if you mind' : )
Are you sure you want to do something as drastic as that!!!!
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