Feedback is good. I like feedback. I should say: I like it up to a point.
Let’s be clear, I’m not talking about all that psychobabble mirroring feedback where you imitate the phrasing or physical gestures of the person across from you. That kind of thing irritates the hell out of me when I notice it. It’s probably irritating the rest of the time too. I just don’t realize that’s why I’m irritated.
Of course I mean the good kind of feedback, the “uh huh” kind, wherein you or I acknowledge what the other one is saying. I like that, and if you’re honest, you’ll say you like it too. It’s better than most of the alternatives.
That said, feedback recently messed up this blog.
It’s been ten days since my last post.
“Ten days isn’t that long in the blogosphere” I was just told. While I’m happy to stipulate that, Auntie doesn’t go for ten days without posting, not without a good reason.
Feedback is not a good reason.
A few of you have been kind enough to give real life feedback. By voice. To my face. You’ve not only said that you read Scarycookies, but you’ve cited enough that I know you really have. Uh oh.
Now the pressure is on.
As honored as I am, it’s both humbling and intimidating. You’ve proven that whatever I say isn’t just being scrolled over by faceless servers in Latvia. (A dozen in Latvia and four in Poland, thank you metrics.)
A couple of people (ironically not the ones who said they read this) have told me they want to start blogging, because they have something to say to the World. My advice was to write for themselves. I think of a blog like those little vinyl-covered diaries with the broken locks I used to get as a tween.
Aside from the fact that this is more legible, the point is valid. It’s a truism that nobody reads blogs anymore. Or it was.
Now I know some of you do.
Now I want to be sure whatever I say is, if not significant, at least entertaining.
Strike that. Reverse it.
Worse, I find myself wanting to do the digital equivalent of checking my fly.