I feel stretched out, sometimes, pulled and twisted and at odds in the middle between the world of the writer and the world of the blogger. One is born a writer, but made a blogger.
For the writer, the sky itself shouts and whispers. Words fall down all around me from the sky, and I gather them up by the armfuls and pour them into the lines, giving my book a little shake at the end to settle in the errant punctuation.
But the blogger writes for function and purpose; proposals and contracts call for a practical list of countable tips that scrape away the cloud-words and add in keywords which screech and rasp against the lyrical rhythm.
For the writer there is always more to say — an endless spring of words to channel into funnels and sift, the gold letters glistening against the dross. But for the blogger, it’s never enough. The blogger must pour stats atop the words, and must toss the words together into a promotional salad, mixing up the letters every which way, until they’re poured out onto the editors’ desks and extruded through the constricting channels of social media.
The writer in me is always battling the blogger.
And the blogger, against her own will, must fight the writer.
“Out of the red and silver and the long cry of alarm to the poet who survives in all human beings, as the child survives in him; to this poet she threw an unexpected ladder in the middle of the city and ordained, ‘Climb!’” -Anaïs Nin