I wish I could write a post like Kathy Sierra’s, full of love for my readers, but I’m cold and I’m cranky, really tired of being stuck at home and working on the book, and the most I can summon up is that I respect you, or at least those of you who make yourselves known.
Love implies that we can share our most intimate details of our lives, and frankly, you don’t want to get that intimate with me, and I know I don’t want to get that intimate with you. Sharing life’s little farts with each other isn’t necessarily entertaining, and why on earth would you want to read this site unless you received some enjoyment from the experience?
The same for me: why would I write just for you? No offense, but readers never stop demanding, have the patience of gnats, and flit from Big Thing to Big Thing, worse than a fly flits between piles of shit. I know, I’m a reader, too.
Every once in a while, we connect. I say something that works for you, or you write something in comments that works for me. Then the moment passes. While there are enough of these moments, you’ll find it worth your while to continue reading, and I’ll find it worth my while to continue writing.
Respect, yeah, that’s important. Agreement? Ha! Admiration? Preferably not, because the inevitable end for admiration is disappointed disillusionment. Can’t we skip the appetizer and just go straight for the disillusionment?
Like is good. We can like each other, but unless you’re telling me you’ll fund my long-fantasized trip to Australia, loan me the money to pay my taxes, or that I can come live with you, let’s not get mushy.
Not mushy, that is, unless you are willing to fund that trip to Australia, then hell yes, I love you.
