Wednesday, March 23, 2016
But this is post #1500 on Dawn Reader, a blog I started back on January 6, 2012, with a title I stole from Dickens (the title of the first chapter of David Copperfield): "I Am Born." (Link to that first post.)
It's been my custom to write a little about each centennial mark I reach, and I have to confess that this large number today kind of rattles my cage. How could I possibly have had 1500 things to say? Well, apparently I did, and here we are.
I'm proud of a few things. I've missed very few days (mostly due to illness or travel). I've developed a weekly feature I like ("Sunday Sundries"). I've been able to serialize some texts I'm working on (currently, a very very very rough draft of a memoir about my ten-year obsession with Mary Shelley and her circle). I've been able to tell some stories that I hope will one day help my grandsons understand what their grandfather's life was like. (When they were very little, they called me "Silly Papa," a name that morphed into "SP," and is showing signs of another change--a more conventional one-- now that they are 11 and (nearly) 7.) I've clarified my own thinking about a number of things.
I've also made some mistakes. Hurt some feelings (unintentionally). Wrote about some things I don't know much about (always a danger). I've probably made some predictions that turned out to be as accurate as the 10-day weather forecast. So it goes in the land of Fallible Humanity.
Usually, I've used these centennial occasions to check my numbers--to see how many "hits" I've earned (?) since the last time. But I realize that I don't really care--and so this time I'm not even going to look. It doesn't matter to me. What matters is that I'm doing this, keeping a record of sorts, and if a few or a score or hundreds of people are checking it out now and then, well, that's fine, but it doesn't alter a thing for me. Although I am grateful for those who read--and let me know (from Facebook or Twitter or elsewhere)--I'm (obviously) not too concerned about a large audience. Such things are evanescent anyway, unless you're a very very rare human being. (Like Mr. Prufrock, "I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be ....")
So I'll continue writing about books I've read, places I've gone, memories I have, odd things I've noticed, daily experiences, teaching (I don't seem to write too much about this anymore), politics (rarely: It does no good), family, friends, health (my cursed cancer will remain an enemy--in my body, on the page); I'll continue serializing things I'm working on.
Until I can't.