Shot in the Arm
Welcome Charly and Jackie, or is it too weird to acknowledge my lifetime’s first and only subscribers by name? Three years I’ve been blogging, and the only subscribers I’ve ever landed signed up on the same day. It was only a day earlier that I achieved my first liked post, in fact my first two, and so far I’ve been unable to pinpoint the source of my newfound visibility. What’s really crazy is that you’re first tuning in on a day when this blog was actually purged of 95% of its content, though it’s also true that I blitzed a few tags with a number of “fresh” posts that were really just quick transfers from another of my blogs, Pandemonium in Lovehandle Town.
The thinking here is that I want more freedom to give voice to my radical side, the part of me that wrote ‘Monstrous’ and for that matter lived it, or rather that Part at a different point in the river, now seventeen years removed.
WARNING: THIS BLOG COULD CONTAMINATE YOUR EXPERIENCE IF IT LEADS YOU TO MY BOOK.
This largely stifled part of me is really not that compatible with most of my Guessing Game friendships, or with the kiddies who might stumble onto me through their interests in baseball and chess.
In the heyday of this blog’s activity, before it first died of neglect, I had been working to make my entire book available here for free, one anecdote at a time. Really a blog in name only; I had been inputting ‘Monstrous’ a section at a time in reverse chronological order so that when I was finished a reader could read it as it was meant to be read, save for the various headlines. What brought the project crashing, though, at least here at WordPress, was a frightening spike in popularity (though not one, mind you, accompanied by likes or subscriptions). My runaway record for views, a mere thirty-one but all is relative, came on the day that I posted ‘Following Women’, a chronicling of the early days of young Tommy Walker the stalker.
Insights by the truckload in the many posts before this, uniformly gorgeous writing, but they didn’t come out in droves until I made myself the star in a freak show. What kind of hairy eyeballs did I now have directed toward me? I’m aware that my book kind of skates along the edges of the intents of the misguided Son of Sam laws– misguided because what kind of stories could possibly more desperately need to be told than those of my brethren– but I’m not safely in prison where the assholes can’t get to me.
That was actually the second time I had shut marketing down; the first was after I scored my first fan, and for all the right reasons, because I couldn’t be sure right away. I had made myself available for correspondence, and the intensity of his love for my book– his showering of me with gifts– was just too overwhelming.
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