I am darned if I’ll write more than a couple of lines… because my last few blog posts have been kidnapped. This is just a test. Will this link do as instructed or lead you to Badlands 404?
Update on the missing blog posts
Problem solved, for now. Everything back in place. It was the pixies.
Of most concern were some drafts and scheduled posts: not yet published but almost ready to go. Along with the last few blog posts they had apparently vanished from my blog. My friends and followers were receiving the usual automated emails alerting them to a new post. Then they’d click on the link provided and land on a 404 (bad link,no-such-page) page.
No likes, no comments for about a week. Funny, I thought. What I had done to offend you nice people? Because it had to be my fault, right?
Then the phantom posts all reappeared again, and we’re kind of back to normal, I think.
I haven’t copied or saved anything. I’m going to trust in the mighty community of WordPress developers to carry on doing their magic.
When I become a Highly Successful Blogger with 1,000 followers — oh why be so modest, 10,000 followers — please, please don’t ask me how I did it.
Here’s the hazard: I would be flattered. And I might actually agree to deliver my gems of wisdom, my 10 or 10,000 tips on how to blog stupendously well. And that would be deeply embarrassing.
You see there are already 265 million pages of “blogging tips”, and if you Google “how to blog” you will discover 6,670 million answers. What more is there to say?
A taxonomy of bloggers
Let me crudely categorise the bloggers I follow into types. Each type has completely different needs.
Type A. Professional bloggers. They work hard at every aspect of their blogging day after day after day. Classic example is Darren Rowse of Problogger.com, who is not only blindingly successful but also knowledgeable, balanced, helpful and authentic. If you want your blog to make money, or to advance your business or professional career, go there for advice.
Type B. Personal bloggers. People like me, who started with a vague idea that blogging might be useful professionally but quickly forgot about that angle and now regard their blog rather as an exercise in self-entertainment and exploration.
Both these types are happy in their work. Blimey, what a sweeping generalisation! Maybe I should say they kind of know what they’re doing, or what they are aiming at. Professional bloggers have a vested interest in improving what they do, but personal bloggers don’t. Not really. And they don’t care because they’re having fun.
And within these “types” — who are not really types at all — are infinite variations because we are all utterly different. We have every reason not to follow the herd, because authenticity is the gold standard of blogging. All the bloggers I follow have chosen to walk their own path. Their blogs are all very, very different— in length and tone and topic and attitude and style. I enjoy tiny frivolous posts, deep long demanding reads, photos, fiction, poems, about politics, philosophy, fitness, feminism, aging, everyday life and so much more. I want posts to take me by surprise, not to trot out the same old recipe for “success”.
Type C. Anxious bloggers. They may be fixated on statistics of Likes and Followers and feel inadequate. They may suspect there’s one magic trick that will make them an instant “success.” Or they may just suffer from generalized anxiety. So they seek advice. Not by Googling, or taking a course, or following a trusted adviser on blogging, but by asking their favourite bloggers. Who then respond with another 10 Tips for Blogging…
OK Personal Blogger, here come my 4 tips (I just can’t help myself)
It’s only one tip, actually. Why would you try to change yourself with the hope that strangers might find you, like you and follow you? That would destroy you. Don’t do it.
Of course, read tips, do a course, get the hang of this blogging thing. I recommend The Daily Post Blogging University, for instance. And then get going. Don’t be scared, just start.
Stop worrying about what hypothetical readers might hypothetically want. Figure out what you want. If it’s instant easy “success” with 10,000 followers by Tuesday, forget it: this is not going to happen, luckily. Blog the way you feel like blogging on the day. Keep on blogging your way, in your time, when you feel like it. Be yourself and let the followers come or not. (They will. And they’re lovely.)
And lighten up! What’s the worst that could happen? You learn with experience? I rest my case.
Do you have a system for blogging? A schedule? A spreadsheet with topics and times? A goal?
Wish I did. For a while I hoped that the Raewyn Gwilliam system would work for me. Every time she has an idea, she writes it as a sentence, which she saves as a draft title. Because it’s clear, accurate and specific, she remembers the whole idea. When it’s time to write, she opens WordPress, grabs a title that appeals and writes. Bingo!
I did the first part — for a while — but I’ve never used anything from my list of brilliant ideas. I also have truckloads of scribbly notebooks filled with other brilliant ideas.
The Earl of Southampton’s cat is one of my favourite blogs. It was, you understand, written by a cat in the 16th century. A cat, moreover, suspected of having written at least some of the works of Shakespeare. These strange circumstances are plausibly explained by the editor of his works, who has deciphered Gib’s writings and has been publishing them in bite sized pieces, complete with scholarly annotations, on a WordPress blog.
In today’s chapter, the now elderly Gib is pestered by his niece. She wants to learn how to write. OK… where to start? I love this chapter because it unpicks the massive phenomenon of writing. What is it? What’s it for? Before Gib ever figures how to teach a kitten how to write, he must find ways of explaining the purpose, the tools, the very definition of writing.
“Now see,” sayt I, “these black marks? Like to a host of little worms? They are sounds imprinted.”
Of Reading, Writing, and My Greatness
Blog post No 71 of The Earl of Southampton’s Cat is compulsory reading for all who write. Be amazed yet again at your miraculous skills, the toys at your fingertips, the knowledge and wisdom and understanding that you possess once you embark on the adventure of writing!
No wonder Gib writes of His Greatness. You too, you who write: ponder today on your own Greatness. You can read those black marks, like to a host of little worms! You can write those little worms! Oh Great One, I salute you. And I am one of you.
But Gib is the Great of Greats, because he is about to impart the skills of reading and writing to a kitten. Inspired by Gib I have been trying for months to teach my cat Ursula to read, which Gib has shown is possible, but in the end I don’t have the patience. Let me know if you succeed.
A few days ago, this blog gained Follower #100. I am still savouring the moment, even though I can’t swear exactly when that moment was, and I’m even uncertain about exactly which person was the 100th follower.
“Exactly which person” — what a crazy prosopagnosic phrase, as if all readers were a blur of clones. Quite the opposite! The beauty of having only 100 followers is that I’ve looked up every one, seen your face or avatar, read many of your posts, and been delighted to receive your comments on my blog. So I can state without fear of contradiction that you (we) are all fiercely individual.
I mean, look at the avatars of the four most recent followers! Could they be any more different from each other or clearer in their individual goals? I urge you to visit their blogs and see for yourself:
I can celebrate this number with all modesty because it’s not 10,000 or even 1,000. It’s a friendly, human number, the sort we can imagine, a lovely number which is nevertheless within reach.
When I was doing social media stuff for my company I was puffed up with greater numbers. 5,000 email subscribers and 3,000 Twitter followers are now in someone else’s hands. Those numbers are still modest, but far too great for me to recognise as individuals.
100 people is:
The population of Fairlie (NZ) when I was born there in 1940 (that’s a creative but liberal estimate) — a place where every person in the village was known to every other
A century in cricket (or years or whatever) — caps in the air, yippee, surely that guarantees a win! (Actually not but hey.)
As a percentage, couldn’t be better, A+ and surely that means top of the class! (Actually not but hey.)
Thank you for being my WordPress village
My thanks not just to the latest arrivals but everyone who hangs out here now and again. You keep me going. You get me going. Right, that’s the happy 100 done and dusted — back to work, me!
Here I am at the mysterious Zq post, published by me, apparently. Some of you commented when this page was nothing but the headline: Zq.
You were puzzled. So was I. What did Zq mean?
To reveal that Zq was accidentally posted by a fat finger on my iPhone is too simple. Surely everything has a purpose? Or a meaning? Or a metaphorical significance in retrospect?
My initial thoughts seemed rather trivial so I waited for some more deep and meaningful deductions to emerge. And waited. And waited.
Nope. Here are my first thoughts, served cold.
Z & Q are both precious letters in my consciousness.
I am a New Zealander who lives in New Zealand. We have a superpower: a unique way of scanning every page or screen: the letter Z leaps out and wiggles and woggles and tickles our eyeballs. (By the way, we say Zed, not Zee.) Zed is structural: every other word clusters around ultra-visible Zed.No Z can hide. No Z is safe from our nanosecond reconnoitre.
And when our eyes find the Z on a page, we sigh with relief, vindicated and authenticated. (We need that, coming from a country that’s just a few insignificant dots in the south Pacific ocean.) Never mind if the Zed is attached to zebra or fez or zebibyte or Alzheimers — we are home!
Zed wears a yellow safety vest. Zed is precious. Zed is rare. Zed is proud. Zed is ours. Zed is me. Where Zed is lurking
so are we.
And hello Q!
Q is for questioning, questioner, questions frequently asked or not at all. I will cling to this faculty and never let go: the ability, the eagerness to ask questions.
To question is human. Children’s questions build a picture of the world — and also build their brains. To continue questioning into old age is to keep the brain alive and yes, even to keep it growing.
Specific types of brain activities are known to protect our brains from the ravages of Alzheimers. They include learning, choosing novel experiences, and meditation.
How can this be? Learning and complex thinking strengthen connections between nerve cells, building up “cognitive reserve” so that the brain can compensate for damage. (You knew that.) Meditation protects the brain in mysterious ways — and hey, meditation may be something you learn (big tick) and a novel experience (big tick).
Q: How come the brain instantly understood Zq and never wavered?
A. Fast thinking?
Zq is shorthand for inquisitive Kiwi
Maybe I should get a Zq identity tattoo. That would be a novelty.
How about you? What are your special letters and what do they mean?
“Why I blog my poems.” Whoa, that sounds as if poetry-blogging is a way of life instead of yet another redundant project thrust into my overloaded schedule a mere four weeks ago. It sounds as if I know what I’m doing. All bluff.
Poems in the Wild. Redundant. Pointless. Impulsive. Nauseating. Embarrassing. Time wasting. Pretentious. Amateurish. Unworthy of you. So my literary self tells me.
But listen to me, literary self! Sit down, lookame lookame lookame! Yes you can keep your coffee but drop the iPhone.
I’m sure if I think hard enough, I’ll find a justification if not a reason for starting yet another blog. Maybe more than one.
7 reasons why I blog my poems
I thought I needed a brand new blog to work on for Blogging 101. I was wrong. So what?
Using Wordpress’s seductive Schedule button, I can impersonate a dedicated, professional, assiduous, skilful, predictable, reliable daily blogger. Poems are banked up in the system now for the next month. Cunning or what?
I have an archive of several hundred mini-poems dating from my first glimpse of a smart phone. It was instantly obvious to me why God created smart phones: for sharing teeny weeny gobbets of poetry. But instead of creating an app or otherwise marketing my little fortune cookie poems, I just went on writing new ones. Today, with an official blog for poems and nothing but poems, I can finally share. (See reason No. 6.)
I looooove taking square photos with my iPhone for no reason. Look, I just took another one. I wear those fingerless mittens on cold type days. What a gorgeous colour! What entrancing shapes! Well, I think so. And how about the lucky placement of “Rejoice” on that red card! I’m happy because my endless stream of photos has found a purpose and a home: Poems in the wild.
Nothing sharpens the editor’s pencil like publication. And a blog is a form of publication even if only three people read it. (See reason No. 6.) Typing each poem out one more time reveals unnecessary commas and a cry for a final edit. Which is nice.
Now for the ultimate justification. A few people have actually read a few of the poems! I can prove it! Perhaps that’s exaggerating but some have clicked a like button and a staggering ten [sic; 10, X, shí, juunin, tekau, dix, zehn, sepuluh] have followed the blog, so there, literary self, take that! Surely even you can see that having a few readers, even a mere two or a magnificent ten, is better than having no readers at all?
And finally: I like my blog. It’s my private indulgence. It makes me smile.