My resolution has always been to not clog the blogosphere with ramblings day-to-day or week-to-week. That carries over year-to-year with my unfailing adherence. It’s the one resolution I always keep. Until now.
My January vows to lose weight, to exercise more, to see- and/or phone my friends and neighbors more often somehow fade away like nightmares in daylight as the weeks go by. Then J.D. Salinger happened to change all that. Well, yes, he actually happened on January 1, 1919 and unhappened on January 27, 2010, at his home in Cornish, New Hampshire.
Last November, three of his unpublished stories were posted online for a short time, and I’m wondering how they slipped out, as his will says they may not be published until fifty years after his death. It may be these are part of what’s said to be allowed to be published between 2015 and 2020. Anyway, about a week ago, all this was revealed in a TV program as news, which did remind me however, that J.D. and I have a bit in common.
NO, unfortunately, as yet I have not made the NYT Bestsellers list. I assume he was financially able to live the life of a recluse in New Hampshire and devote his time to writing. Just writing. He loved to write, but hated publishing, which he considered an imposition on his time. Of course, we differ in that I cannot afford to do the same, but I’m sure he, too, would have some choice words for today’s demand on a writer to spread oneself across a gazillion media formats.
To me, it’s a bit like stripping oneself naked for approval before one’s services are purchased. There’s a name for that.
Maybe most of us can’t remember back that far, but watch a baby in a highchair being fed mush. Strained peas, carrots, squash, bananas, peaches, prunes (really?), beef, chicken, lamb—ad nauseam.
My least favorite, so my mother says, was applesauce. In fact, from those highchair days on, any time I screwed up my face in disgust, my parents called it my “Applesauce Face.”
Watch that same baby when folks around the table are eating dinner, too. That lovey becomes a cranky terror who dumps his dish, knock over his bottle and raises a holy hullaballoo! Little One is saying, “I’d kill for one of those chicken legs to sink my teeth into. Or gums. Just give me real food!”
It occurred to me that this is the way I feel about modern media. To me, there’s an enormous amount of brainpower, electricity, and battery power—not to mention time—wasted on…mush. I do not twitter or tweet. I am not a twit. Okay, so this leaves me out of a market to sell my stuff. I really don’t care. Minds of 140 characters are not those I’m trying to reach.
I don’t iPhone, either. I do blog. I do Facebook. When I want to. Not good enough? Too bad. I’ve got a life to live, and there’s a hell of a lot of world out there I haven’t seen yet. To prevent my bottom from developing acreage by sitting in front of a computer, to avoid driving into a canal and drowning from yakking on the cell phone or texting, I’m going to do it “My Way,” like Frankie.
Anybody else brave enough to speak up?