Traffic is down here at Someday Box. We aren’t surprised, Best Beloved and I. The reposts from Finding Why and Business Heretics. Excerpts. Links to hither and yon.
Being the needy angsty type, my first impulse is to ask how I can make you love me more. The Dylan poster on my wall says it doesn’t matter who loves you as long as you love you.
Most of you show up on Friday, after the newsletter goes out. The in-between posts get less love, maybe because they’re not fresh. Maybe because the titles aren’t compelling. Maybe because they’re about someone else instead of me, and you’re all slavering and lusting for more me, less them.
Maybe I should have my head examined.
Truth is, there are consequences to change.
I’m focused on my mysteries now, and less on book shepherding. Not, mind you, that I don’t want to hear about your book and help you make it happen. I’m still very attached to sleeping indoors, still addicted to food, needing some twice a day at least. We talked yesterday about A Long, Hard Look. It’s one of 5 in the chute. Maybe 6. I keep losing track.
But focus. It’s not a broad spectrum antibiotic, it’s a scalpel.
Next year, or the year after that, or, well, you get the idea, that year whenever it is, the focus here will pay off. The diminished traffic at this blog, the willingness to let work float in of its own accord rather than chasing it down like a wildebeest, it’ll all be fine. History. The smart choice, because that’s what we call the choice that pays off even though we thought the choices that bombed like the Fat Boy were smart when we made them.
I keep telling y’all it’s a long game, not a quick sprint. This is me, pretending to be Cliff Young, who I’m not.
See you at the finish line.