Blog Performance Anxiety

I’m sitting here trying to type with a caramel-colored insane dog perched on my chest.  It is not easy.  The 14-pound, serotonin-deficient Sebastian so longs to dominate me, he’s digging his nails in places dog paws just should not go.  I need to assert my status as Ultra Uber Household Yenta Alpha Bitch.  It’s a must.  But I was never too good at that.

I’m nervous about launching this blog.  The title of my first novel aside, I’m no exhibitionist.  I’m such a total voyeur, in fact, I prefer to read the poorly punctuated odds-and-ends of self-indulgent, likely Axis-II strangers.  When I was in school, and after, I never kept a journal.  To my reasoning, if I was going to write, I wanted to write.  Write-write.  Real write.  Not bullshit write.  Not processing-random-interpersonal-crapola write.  (Obnoxious Controlling Boyfriend Flowcharts 1 through 7.  Obnoxious Controlling Girlfriend Flowcharts 1 through 5.)  Or writerly-rumination-write, like Lorrie Morrie spoofed in one of her great Self Help stories.  (“An eyelid opening sideways.”  Ha!)

Self Help.  I love that short-story collection.  I still think it’s the best damn thing Moore’s done, though I did love Georgianne Michelle, her name for the protagonist’s imaginary  baby in Anagrams.  Thank you, Eleanor Foa (mother of my favorite pessimist, the inimitable Joshua Foa Dienstag, just “Josh” to the forever 17-year-old me), for giving me that book when I was sick in ’86.  I re-read it all the time.

Back to blog.  Akin to “journaling,” I think.  “Journaling.”  OY.  Ugh.  Spare me.  Irksome creative-writing verb, second to the dreaded “workshopping.”  “We workshopped Fifi’s poem tonight.”  “Harlan’s poem needs more workshopping.”  Back in 1989 I should have bypassed the NYU poetry workshops and gone straight to the workshop for Stanley Kaplan LSAT Prep.  Just kidding.  Kind of.  I did work with poet gods and rockstars like Galway Kinnell, Sharon Olds, Jean Valentine, remarkable Denis Donoghue (behind his back, I called him Don Ho), and the late and heartbreakingly brilliant Deborah Digges.  Bumping into Harold Bloom in his filthy parka was a thrill.  I’m serious. So, no regrets.  Er, well, minimal regrets.

Blog.  Will be useful.  View as conditioning, finger Pilates for the real stuff.  Certainly more useful than bitter, cutesy Facebook statuses tapped with one hand on my BlackBerry, midtraffic.  And safer for the motoring public.

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