It’s been so freaking long since I wrote a blog entry, I began to wonder if I was still literate or not. Please, feel free to post your opinions about that. It’s not that there’s nothing to blog about, perhaps it’s that there is too much, and it’s hard just to pick one issue to have an opinion on.
Perhaps that’s where I’ll start. As you can tell, by the title of this blog, I enjoy sharing my opinion with people. (I call it sharing. Some choose to call it being overbearing and controlling. I don’t see it that way, Mary Ellen.) This issue came to mind this morning, when I was downstairs at the coffee place at work, and someone asked for “A muffin. I don’t care what kind”. I can’t imagine having the responsibility of choosing someone’s muffin for them. Why, the wrong pastry could ruin your whole day. That’s a lot of responsibility for someone making minimum wage (actually, the canteen operators here make more than that, but that’s not the issue here).
There is another area where the sharing of my opinion causes me a great deal of anxiety. George Murray over at the blog Bookninja.com posted a link about it the other day. Recommending books, to me, is a very personal thing. The types of books that people enjoy say a lot about them. When there are books that I’m emotionally affected by, it increases my trepidation exponentially. And yet, I’m torn between that trepidation, and wanting to share my finds with others. (I could name some, if you'd like...)
If you read that link to Bookninja, you’ll see comments from someone named Andrew, whom I don’t know (but have since learned is a writer), who uses people’s opinions of his recommendations as a friendship barometer of sorts. Works for me. I once had an almost heated argument with someone about the Time Traveler’s Wife, and ended up deciding that the woman was an idiot (no name, to protect the stupid). It’s most difficult, though, when there’s someone I truly respect, who says “yeah... it didn’t do anything for me.” So those are the people I am most hesitant about recommending a book to.
I respect the art of writing. It takes incredible courage to put pen to paper (or pixels to white space) and let people see it. I imagine (because I’ve never written anything that’s been let out into the world, save this blog, a couple of irate letters to the editor and my lame twitter/facebook updates. Oh… and my regular day to day job that involves writing reports on mentally ill offenders) that it’s like letting your child out into the world. (Which I am experiencing) You create something, edit it, perfect it … then let it go. Let it survive, or not.
Or not... how do you put something out there? Run the risk of it not being accepted, not being understood. Not being successful. Not surviving, in the real world.
Published writers, I am in awe.