I will be posting every day for the month of September. Let me warn you ahead of time. Many of these posts will be bad or lazily-written. I will have no time to be clever. I realize that this will be sabotaging my “brand” and my name, but sometimes we have to sacrifice everything for the greater good.
Why will I be posting every day for the month of September? Here is the uplifting tale —
I was kvetching on Twitter, as I frequently do, saying that I had lost my blogging mojo. There were many factors at play, causing this state of mojo-less — personal ones, disenchantment with the blogging world, the trauma of attending BlogHer, and a lack of focus.
After I wrote this “tweet,” some nice woman from one of our fine Southern states, sent me a message that struck me deep, like a Confederate knife into my abdomen. This nice woman was not a long-time reader of my blog or someone I knew that well, just a concerned citizen, but her voice from the darkness was a lifeline of reason and compassion. She said, and I paraphrase, “Shut the f**k up and just blog every day for the month of September.” I’m not sure if she used those exact words, but those are the ones that I heard.
I know some bloggers try to post each day as a writing exercise or as a challenge to themselves. I don’t care about that. The last thing I want to do is clutter my template with one of those “I Did Namblopomo Last Month” (National Blog Posting….). In my opinion, that is not a inspirational goal. Call me old-fashioned, sexist, patriarchal — but I can only visualize one true reason for doing anything:
“If I post every day for the month of September, will you tell me your bra size?” I asked.
She said yes, without a hesitation. Southern women are confident, and don’t play games. I am learning that.
I had my motivation. My muse. I said it was an uplifting tale!
Was it wrong for me to ask for this request? I don’t think so. Great literature, from Homer to Cervantes to Shakespeare, are filled with tales of men going out into the world to achieve an impossible task for the honor of a woman. Why else do the f**king impossible task?! Right?
And yes, I want a pay-off at the end. I am a man. I figured that asking for her bra size was extremely personal, but not outrageous in these modern times when women post about their vibrators, a 2009 equivalent of the thirteenth century knight asking the maiden for a locket of her hair.
Some of my male blogger friends were all, “Dude, you sold yourself short. You should have held out for a topless photo!” These men clearly do not understand what a muse is all about, because they have spent more time reading Penthouse letters than Ovid. Asking for a topless photo would be sleazy and TOO practical, undermining the beauty and poetry of the JOURNEY.
And yes, this is a journey. And yes, there will be a prize at the end, if I can fight the demons and sirens and fight the windmills and battle the Trojans and accomplish all of my tasks. The prize will be a satisfying one, a key to the unlocking of a woman’s deepest and precious mystery, but it is also a pointless one. And THAT is the point. I had lost my blogging mojo because I was in search of a reason – a practical point – for writing this blog, and the answer is — there is none. The journey exists on its own. There should be no prize. But, alas, I still needed one, even an illogical one, because I am a weak man, a soldier without a war, an athlete without a team, a priest without a God. I needed a muse. And soon I will know her bra size.
