Blethic

Thanks, Stagwoman who gave me this "You Make My Day Award" for being a fun read!

I like awards AND attention. Yes, this made the matron happy.

Speaking of good reads, I finally got around to creating my blogroll. Check out that amazing line-up. If I've missed someone whose blog I routinely breeze through, zap me an email and I'll add you. We're all about inclusion up here in the northland.

As I wiped the technological drool off my chin while creating the blogroll (yes, it is that bad, friends), I found myself once again pondering 'blethic' or blog ethic.

Ever since I made up this word, I've been busily defining it. A good word will have nuance and depth--deployability (oooh! another good one!).

Of course, blethic refers to how I treat people on this blog: 1) only the (in)famous may be skewered but family and friends are fair game for a gentle roasting; 2) no telling someone else's story (but where yours meets mine is fair game). That's pretty simple, so far.

And then there's blethic, as in the care and feeding of the blog. A work ethic, of sorts. The blog has needs. Correspondence. Cosmetic concerns about color, texture and tone. The blog is greedy for content and can't tolerate more than a day without a little love, without being pampered and preened. And, the blog has blog role models who out-pixel and out-pace, whose verve makes the matronly prose putter and plod.

Not that I would ever compare myself to others. Or cast the critical eye on self, all that.

Um.

The other curious feature of blogging is that I have begun to think in blog posts. Any instantaneous observation or emotion immediately begins shaping into a narrative. My mind operates in blog bites. In compact summaries and amusing anecdotes.

This isn't unfamiliar territory. When I wrote my (very good but unpublished although agented and diligently shopped) second novel, I embodied Leilani, the main character whose husband and daughter are killed in a car accident. This was unpleasant for me. And everyone else. But I woke with dread, wept over Scarlett's dresses, developed transportation anxieties.

One quick digression: note the sentence above that introduces my novel. Could the matron be a tad bit insecure? Competitive? Required to self-credential from time to time?

Um.

Now that blethic's demands have been met -- post and blogroll and all that--the matron must turn her critical eye to that kitchen and the mess, therein. House and children, and all that.

Which world does she prefer, sometimes?

Um.