My first blog post ever, where I, trying to write novel #2 and share pithy insights about how that's working out, cozy up to the idea of blogging

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a YA writer in possession of half a brain must be in want of a blog.

So here I sit, staring at a blank page, or more accurately, a somewhat blank screen in the middle of which is the cyber equivalent of a page, and I do, I seriously and honestly do, sort of definitely, want to blog.

With reservations.

There are some wonderful blogs that I love out there. They are witty and incisive. They talk about books and about writing and about the writer’s life in a way that is intimate and intelligent and inviting. They take tiny, vivid moments and make them moving and compelling and big.

I want to write one of those great blogs.

But then there are the pitfalls.
Hells yeah. The pitfall of folks who have moved beyond the mere plucking of grey hairs and have actually taken to covering their grey hairs with artfully applied streaks and vast patches of blond dye but who persist in saying things like “hells yeah” and otherwise masquerading as YA’s.

The pitfall of being mind-numbingly boring. It could happen. I have already noticed that I lead a life without one single fun fact in it. A life devoid of all perkiness. Although I suppose that when I find myself sinking into fun-free prose, I can always throw in a picture of my dog.

Cute, huh? I, on the other hand, require extensive airbrushing to even vaguely approach cuteness.

The pitfall of way too much (personal) information, with its related and even more hideous cousin: the accidental revelation of way too much information. Personal information that it embarrasses readers to even consider, that is just hanging there, completely and shamelessly naked, between the lines.

The pitfall of being way too impersonal, completely wasting the opportunities for spontaneity and real connection that blogging offers.

The pitfall of creating a cyber persona that isn’t real vs. the pitfall of failing to edit your real self and mistakenly believing that readers will sit there, enraptured, when you tell them what your mother-in-law said (and didn’t say) when your otherwise nice dog tried to eat her Chihuahua.

The pitfall of missing the boat on the form and going on for way too long…

Perhaps I’ll stop now.