Help!

Listen, even though I’m not at this blog anymore, it’s still getting a bunch of traffic and I can’t figure out why. I can’t remember all the places I’ve been in cyberspace that still list this blog as my address.

Can you do me a favor?

If you arrived here, please leave me a comment and let me know how you got here? So that I can go and fix the link? Thank you so much, I’d really appreciate it.

My blog is no longer here. It is now over here.

Thanks!

NEW SITE

For those of you who missed it, I’m no longer here.

I’m here.

ANNOUNCEMENT: New OFD site and a give-a-way

So I’ve done it. I’ve got my own domain. I’m moving the blog.

It’s not ready yet, mind you. I’ve got Designing Temptation working on it and that’s gonna take a couple weeks, but I decided the process of switching everything over was going to take quite a bit of effort, and I might as well start hounding you about it now. And by hounding I mean blatantly begging, as you’re about to see.

I know updating your feedreaders and your blogrolls is a ginormous pain in the pita, I know, I know. So I thought I’d sweeten the pot a bit with a little bribery.

Comments on this post are turned off, but there’s a post on the new site waiting for you. All you have to do is, 1) subscribe to the new feed. 2) Fix my link in your blogroll if I’m there, and 3) Leave a comment at the new site so I know you bent over backwards for me. I’ll head over to your site, check out your work, and likely cry over your kindness. Then, one week from today, on August 10, I will put all the commenters’ names in a hat and force one of my children to draw three names. Each of the three winners will receive a $25 Barnes & Noble Gift Card.

I don’t normally do give-a-ways, and this is not a paid, sponsored post of any kind. I’m just gonna go buy them with my own money and send them to you, no strings attached. Because I will be devastated if you don’t make the leap over with me, and I’m willing to pay big money to avoid ulcers and panic attacks and obsessive nights and gut-rot from all the fingernails in my belly.

Remember, the new site doesn’t look so great, and it’s a bit jink-wangled because I don’t know what I’m doing. But soon, hopefully sooner than later, I’m going to move in properly and make it my own.

So, here it is. See you over there. I hope.

Happy 11th Anniversary, Darlin’

Last night

The front door entrance yawned wide; the maitre de, bored. Crystal water goblets, polished to reflect the perfection all around. The waitress spread my napkin across my lap, the subtlest invasion. She did not bring the food, the delicious, tiny portions; it was beneath her. The wine had legs of its own, syrupy and solid. The money spent on one glass could have fed a hungry family, the kind that wouldn’t have the door held open for them here.

The bathroom, lit like a celebrity’s dressing room. Plush paper hand towels, a tree a piece, monogrammed. Rich soap and creamy lotion, faintly scented. Next to me, at the sink, a woman whose hands had never needed lotion a day in her life, but most surely had always had plenty of it. A woman who tossed me a look meant to sear, intended to teach: She belonged here. Most others, me included, did not.

She breezed out; I shuddered in the cold of her perfumed wake.

Then, in the corner, a gift: A thick, ugly, spiderweb, riddled with juicy bugs.

Just like at my house. And yours.

Fear and self-loathing in the Midwest

Once upon a time, when Gretta was a toddler, I told her to trust me and then I nearly drowned her — at which point the heaviest fear I’ve ever felt set in. It was like some God of Terrifying Things was holding me by my ankles and plastering papier-mache-panic upon my body piece by piece, and I was paralyzed but for the involuntary shaking. It wasn’t just that she could have been seriously hurt on my watch, but also that I’d forgotten, for one dazzling moment, to be afraid of everything — and I’d been punished for it. Remarkably, that day, after the shock dripped off, I did what I knew had to be done, for both of us. I forced us back in the water.

Two days ago, I dove headfirst back into blogging, the whole unfathomably large, salty, mysterious, oceanic thing, the feed readers and the stats and ads and designs and community. I jackknifed from the high dive and felt that mind-numbing rush upon impact, fresh and startling, heart-stopping. I have yet to decide if it’s a baptism or a drowning.

I don’t know why I have such a fear of this place. The thing I didn’t say in that Stepping Off post, the thing only a few people know, is that I got scared. There’s a reason I live in the country, twenty miles from the nearest gas station. Sure, it’s scenic, but it’s also private. Very, very private. When the Okay, Fine, Dammit house became a more popular place to be, I was absolutely thrilled. All a writer wants is to be read and heard and trusted and followed, you all know that. But it also felt like there were suddenly all these faces peeking in the windows, and I’d never even thought to buy blinds. Please don’t misunderstand: I invited you, you’re all welcome, I just have to get used to wearing pants, you know?

More than that, though, is the fear of being hated, of being talked about, of being judged. I’ve had only a handful of inconsequential trolls since starting this blog, and though they were mostly drive-by, inane posters, they affected me all the same. And for those other Big Bloggers, the ones who have really made it, the ones who supposedly have what we all want, things are so much worse.

Last night I spent two hours glued to a hate blog, the kind of thing I didn’t know existed until I accidentally stumbled upon it and couldn’t look away. Imagine, an entire blog devoted to bashing Dooce and Pioneer Woman, and others like them. The blog author spewed some of the most rancid vitriol I’ve ever tasted in my life, and it struck me, hard, like a slap: Is this the ultimate goal?

Is that how you’re rewarded when you’ve finally “made it” as a blogger? To get to a place where so many people read you that there are bound to be several who hate you, and dedicate their entire lives to ripping you to shreds bit by bit? Are we all just wishing for traffic and comments and recognition without thinking about the consequences? I know it’s insane, but if I couldn’t tear my eyes away from that blog, how on earth could I possibly ignore any bad things that could be written about me? It doesn’t matter how big or small or in between this blog is, even one sharp sentence will slice me. I know it. And I’m terrified.

But look at me, I’m doing it anyway — and I guess that’s the difference between me today and me two days ago.

Like any good parent, I often wonder if I permanently damaged Gretta that day in the pool. I can still see her face, wet, shiny, open to me, open to the world, plastered with a smile that threatened to split her face apart. The subtle ways it morphed from joy to terror and back to joy again, over and over as we tossed her into the air. The weightless nanoseconds before she came back down, time suspended. How she looked when I betrayed her trust.

She was sitting in one of those flotation devices for babies, shaped like a turtle or a dragon or something, and there were two of us, two adults, a friend and I, one on each side, protective, fun, and it was a game, and she was safe, we’re here, don’t worry! We kept shouting, laughing along with her, until one throw was too high, and out she slipped, and down she plunged, and for several terrifying seconds I waded through molasses to get to her, to pull my baby from the three-foot depths. We climbed out of the pool and clung to its edge, shaken, changed, maybe forever, maybe for a minute, I don’t know. We sunk into each other, into the pavement, the grainy poolside putty leaving a pocked impression upon the backs of my thighs, the experience itself leaving one more nebulous. I wanted to wrap her in a towel and get her out of there, run till my legs gave out, but something bigger than me told me what I had to do, even if it was on auto-pilot. That if we hid from this fear, any fear — hers more primal, mine laden with knowledge and worry and experience — it might be crippling.

That is why, after some cuddling and hushing and sweet, slow rocking, without knowing exactly what we were doing or what would come of it, we slipped back into the water.

*****

This post was inspired by my dear friend Katie’s post today, about getting back on the horse (literally). I started to write a book in her comment section and then decided to come over here, instead. I’d forgotten about this experience until I read her words.

pfffffffffffffffft (the sound of my new poofy head leaking)*** UPDATED____ Ohgoodlord updated AGAIN***

First, my apologies to the innocents wandering over from BlogNosh after reading my eloquent waxings on pain and parenthood and all things kumbaya. I swear, it’s not a bait and switch, there’s a little bit of everything over here. Today, I’m abusing italics and there’s a whole lotta…. ineleoquence. Uneloquence? Ah, fuck it, let’s get on with it then.

Yesterday, I was on top of the world, mostly because of you guys. OK, entirely because of you guys. I honestly thought you’d all gone home, and when you answered my call with a standing ovation I was struck dumb, happy as a dodo bird, egocentric as a newborn babe. Not only did you return, but I had my record traffic day ever. EVER. Like, in an entire year of blogging. BlogNosh Magazine and Megan’s sweet follow-up tweet and post made me feel like I won an Oscar. And when she tweeted about me? My computer exploded. She did, too, and there was lots of other supportive buzz and ohmygodWordPressFrontPage! I sat there watching the comments roll in and I could hardly contain my excitement. Everything felt so good! So right! So amazing!

I AM BLOGGER, HEAR ME ROAR!!!!!!

And then I purchased sitehosting on DreamHost, and immediately began having flashbacks to junior high, right around the time I went from Diligent Student to that poofy-banged girl who paired spandex shorts with the tie-die shirt autographed by Bret Michaels, rowr, ohmyGAWD, like, who needs college? And then I downloaded WordPress.org (easy, 1-click publishing! Lying bastards) and I started hearing this funny grinding in my brain and I smelled smoke and then I got an email from BlogHer saying they wouldn’t put ads on my site because I use a swear word in my blog title, “even if it’s misspelled” (is that a dig? That was a dig, right? OHMYGOD EVERYBODY HATES ME) and then one of my eyes popped out so now I’m losing my shit (sorry BlogHer) a little bit (ooh, but at least I’m rhyming!) and I’m beginning to think I can’t do this, I can’t do this, this is a very bad idea, I’m right back where I started only stupider and more frustrated and seriously considering changing my blog name but if I do that, it’s not me — right? RIGHT?? Isn’t that kind of the entire point of yesterday’s post?

I am blogger. Hear me…. meow.

And I don’t even get it, really, because maybe The Bloggess doesn’t swear in her title but girlfriend uses words my precious innocent fingers can’t even type, like, EVERY OTHER WORD, and BlogHer Ads happily reflect her posts over in that column on the right (except for that one time they deleted the word “Jesus”) and I can think of a million other examples off the top of my head and my blog is not like that, it’s NOT, and really the title comes from moments just like this. Like, “Okay, fine, I’ll change my gaddamn blog name for you, because that’s how the world works, and I’m just trying to get along like everybody else, maybe make a buck or two here or there, justify my time, dammit.”

[Disclaimer: I love everything about Jenny the Bloggess and the above statements in no way reflect on my feelings toward said Bloggess. Carry on.]

And this building my own brand new sparkly site thing? Seriously, WHAT. THE. EFF. DAVID. BLAIN.

Millions and millions of bloggers around the world host their own sites, TONS of them have pretty pretty pretty pages like this one and this one and this one. How is everybody doing this? WHY IS EVERYBODY SO MUCH SMARTER THAN ME? I just bet those ladies didn’t ingest as much cherry Lipsmacker as I did.

I know, I know, I know what you’re all thinking. Perhaps if I spent more time learning about blogging and less time murmuring to myself in the mirror (oooh, girrrrrrrrl, you look gooooood, yeaaaaaaah, you are ONE POPULAR BLOGGER, LADY! You were missed! They love you! … Is that a new zit?) I wouldn’t be feeling so frustrated and hopeless right now.

So far I’m out $69.09 in the quantifiable, and millions in the intangible.

Is there anyone out there who can help me?

*********

UPDATED:

Don’t cry for me, Argentina. Everything is gonna be OK. This lady? This beautiful, wonderful, highly intelligent lady? Talked me off the ledge yesterday for, like, six bloody hours. Then, today, I hooked up with this amazing blog designer with the cutest new baby ever and everything is gonna be okay, I can feel it. We’re all working on my new site and I’ve even got some Google Adsense ads on there and so what if right now they’re all in German for some got-forsaken reason? Everything will work out. I have faith. Because you guys said so, nein? Ja wohl. Danke shone.

*********

SECOND UPDATE:

Right. Everything is going swimmingly except I can’t log in to my new site. I’ve somehow locked myself out and for the life of me I can’t figure out how to get back in. Which could cause a delay of sorts, I imagine. SHEIST!!!

Is this thing on?

Hello?

Helllllloooooooo??

I know you’ve all gone home. You’ve deleted my feed from your readers, dropped me from your blogrolls, I know. It’s been a month since I closed the curtains on this space. I feel like I’m standing up on the stage, the audience long gone, my voice a lonely echo in the rafters, scraps of a once-lovely set shredded at my feet. Glitter on my cheek.

Just me and my voice here, now.

It’s funny, I feel a sick sort of freedom. I can say anything I want, and no one will hear.

FUCK!

Hmm. That doesn’t really make a difference, I said that all the time here. How about this?

I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU THINK OF ME!

Whew!

Feels kinda good. Even if it isn’t true.

*******

This whole little breakdown I seem to be experiencing right this second started with tonight’s email from my friend, Amanda. She was letting me know that one of my old posts would be featured on the recently-launched BlogNosh Magazine tomorrow, and didn’t we have a bit of a conundrum here, what with my having shut down and all. I’d almost forgotten, we’d talked about this, the awesome new online magazine that showcased bloggers’ forgotten archives. Could you re-open the blog for a day, maybe two? she wanted to know, exes and o’s and some other such nonsense, I don’t know, I love her, she had me at “fiddledy fuck”. At first, it felt like just another loss, another sad consequence of my poor blog’s untimely demise.

Then my heart started to race. Literally, race.

*******

Truth telling time: I miss blogging. I miss it very much. But that doesn’t mean I know what I want.

See, so many people in my real life think it’s a waste of time. Some are friends, some are family, some are actually writers who are out there making it, and their voices resonate the soundest, they say come on, don’t give it away for free, don’t waste your time, your energy, your skill. Blogging is fake.

Are they right? I can’t ask you guys, you’re biased. You’re bloggers. To you, this is exactly where we all should be. To you, something special is happening out here.

And I’m not saying I disagree.

I keep reading about the death of newspapers, of magazines, of my field, the drying up, the washing out. My gut tells me there is something to this online community, this forum, that maybe my future lies not in the traditional journalism, but in a hybrid of sorts.

(Would you still read if I moved to a new spot? If I posted ads? Would you hate me?)

I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what this is. I told Amanda I would re-open the blog for a couple days, welcome any new BlogNosh readers with something more than a blank, protected screen, but I don’t know beyond that. I’m still hashing it all out in my mind. I’m still explaining myself away and then second-guessing what I’ve said. This is not a come back. I don’t know what it is. A public proclamation, maybe? Perhaps an entreaty. Perhaps it’s just a bunch of smoke and mirrors, I don’t know.

Maybe it’s one last stolen ride.

*******

After I got Amanda’s email tonight, I thought my heart might leap right from my body (much like my liver’s been doing lately, a kind of conscientious objector, but that’s another story.) I literally could. not. wait. to log in to my blog. I was shaking with the want, the need, the innate desire to feel my fingers fly once again, to bellow my thoughts out into the cybersphere!

And here is the last secret, whispered in to my cyber-pillow, with no one left to hear: For too long, I let the opinions of a handful of people cloud my experience here. Each word, every post, I thought of them first. Each time I hit “publish” I thought, now they will have further proof that I’m an idiot. It was horribly paralytic.

Tonight, even if it’s just this one time, I’m not going to let that happen. I refuse to polish this post, to get worked up over how you’ll perceive me. I’m starting to understand that it’s all about you anyway, not me. The things you think you hate, the ugly you think you see in me, is really about your own chipped, rusty veneer. I may not always remember to believe that but deep in my gut I know it’s true. I know it’s true.

(I’m pretty sure this is not the post that Amanda envisioned.)

It’s certainly not what I envisioned for myself. This entire evening — the email, the racing heart, the confessions, the truth — it’s all taken me by surprise.

The bottom line is — ohmygod I honestly think this is the real bottom line — this is where I want to be. Even if it takes away from my “real” writing. Even if some people I walk among look down on me. Even if I go broke. Even if I get hate mail. Even if the finished product sucks more often than not.

I want to blog.

Okay?

Fine.

Dammit.

Stepping off

In my moments of inspiration… in the curious alchemy of night evaporating into morning, or the glittery mania a half a bottle in… in those (increasingly rare) moments that I’m possessed by the powerful urge to mark time with writing, to hurl my words into the air and watch them flutter swaybacked down around me… in those moments of inspiration, I come here.

To this blog.

But it’s where I don’t go with those moments of inspiration that are weighing heavy, soppy-wet and musty, on my mind of late.

I’ve kept this blog for one year. In the act of writing here, I have fallen in love with words — with my own words, in fact. I have grown confident of a skill I once doubted at every turn. I have found my voice here, sneaked out to meet her in the middle of the night, smoked her up and shot whiskey, gossiped and giggled and arm-wrestled her for the prize. I’ve felt accountable to her, and therefore worked at improving her with a vehemence that wouldn’t have been there without this forum. But in this frenzied dalliance, I’ve crippled her, in a way.

You all make me feel so big. So big. But then I wander outside of the bright blogosphere and my eyes adjust to the real world light and I see it for what it is, and I see me for who I am, and it’s not the same. I’m smaller and, somehow, less significant. And I worry that this world I’ve built is nothing more than a Wild West movie set, a city of cardboard cutouts staged with people and places that blow over with a single, errant gust of wind.

When I write a magazine article for publication, it doesn’t appear in print for months. When it does, there is a brief, brilliant flash of accolades, but it burns out fast when next month’s issue hits the stands. I imagine it’s even worse for book authors, who toil away at their craft for years and maybe, if they’re really lucky, enjoy a modicum of success until the next book comes along, until their work of blood and guts incarnate is relegated to the remainder table, forgotten. It’s a hard, lonely job. It’s why we writers go a little bit crazy, why we drink a little too much, why we’re so often brilliant on paper but retarded in life.

But, blogging? Blogging gives me instantaneous publishing, instant feedback, instant, mind-blowing gratification. It’s incredibly addictive. And all it asks in return is everything.

So I give it everything. All of my creativity, all of my mania, all of my ugly, all of my fantastic, all of my inspiration, goes into this blog. When, instead? It should be going into my work. Finding work, improving work, getting paid for work. This isn’t just a hobby for me, it’s my mortgage.

I realize that many, many writers can do both, but I can’t. It’s the way I’m wired, this need to treat you all well, to reciprocate, to keep track, to perform. To be a good friend. To do something all the way or not at all. It’s just one of the many things I’d change about myself if I could, but I can’t. It is what it is.

I may regret this decision, I know that, especially as I watch the publishing world evolve into a place that forces every writer to be a marketing machine, a curious world where even my editors have blogs. I will also miss you all, each of you with your unique voices and contributions and gifts. But, for now? Stopping this ride and stumbling off, dizzy and nauseous, mildly bewildered, feels like nothing more than relief.

Tremendous relief.

Why I haven’t been blogging…