Who do you love?
As I cruise the alleyways of Blogville, and see those people who are participating in that Novel Writing Thing, it leads me to think about what I write and for whom.
As of even date, there are many accepted forms of prose literature. You have your novel, novella, short story, essay, etc. Thus far, "blog" isn't in that pantheon. But never mind.
When I write I have a very specific person in mind. The one I'm writing for is the adult version of the first descendant of mine whom I'll never see. Let's just call him Numbah One Great-Grandson, whom I'll arbitrarily guesstimate is to be born around 2054. So basically I'm lecturing/hectoring/conversing with someone whose DNA is 12.5% mine going out into the great wide world (assuming there is one) on or about 2072, when I--were I to remain alive that long--would be pushing 110.
For the record, longevity runs pretty deep in my family, with most of the previous generation not checking out until their mid-90s. Even so, I think ~110 is pushing it a touch.
Anyway, writing to such an audience as this helps me keep certain things focused. It offers me the opportunity to share some family history (my parents are, um, not particularly good at this) some comments on general life situations which explain the usefulness of received wisdom, and some explanation of whence assorted traditions sprang. Traditions such as my holing up in the kitchen during Thanksgiving away from the madding crowd, with soothing beverages in hand and ton(ne)s of food to prepare.
The world, as you might have noticed, is a mess. Diligent study has led me to believe it has pretty much always been a mess. If it's not Hittites slaughtering the Jebusites, it's the Elbonians enslaving the Lutonians. Therefore, as someone who (it is devoutly to be hoped) has struck a few shrewd blows for civilization, I wish to pass that outlook on, not just to those whom I'll likely meet, but those I'll very likely not meet.
And, most important of all, I can't be bothered to scribble down recipes on notecards.
-J.
As of even date, there are many accepted forms of prose literature. You have your novel, novella, short story, essay, etc. Thus far, "blog" isn't in that pantheon. But never mind.
When I write I have a very specific person in mind. The one I'm writing for is the adult version of the first descendant of mine whom I'll never see. Let's just call him Numbah One Great-Grandson, whom I'll arbitrarily guesstimate is to be born around 2054. So basically I'm lecturing/hectoring/conversing with someone whose DNA is 12.5% mine going out into the great wide world (assuming there is one) on or about 2072, when I--were I to remain alive that long--would be pushing 110.
For the record, longevity runs pretty deep in my family, with most of the previous generation not checking out until their mid-90s. Even so, I think ~110 is pushing it a touch.
Anyway, writing to such an audience as this helps me keep certain things focused. It offers me the opportunity to share some family history (my parents are, um, not particularly good at this) some comments on general life situations which explain the usefulness of received wisdom, and some explanation of whence assorted traditions sprang. Traditions such as my holing up in the kitchen during Thanksgiving away from the madding crowd, with soothing beverages in hand and ton(ne)s of food to prepare.
The world, as you might have noticed, is a mess. Diligent study has led me to believe it has pretty much always been a mess. If it's not Hittites slaughtering the Jebusites, it's the Elbonians enslaving the Lutonians. Therefore, as someone who (it is devoutly to be hoped) has struck a few shrewd blows for civilization, I wish to pass that outlook on, not just to those whom I'll likely meet, but those I'll very likely not meet.
And, most important of all, I can't be bothered to scribble down recipes on notecards.
-J.
Comments
;-)
-J.