Calaveras Publishing Company

Mokelumne Hill, CA — One small step at a time

There’s just too much to see

Posted on | October 20, 2008 | Eric Peterson |

“It’s my job to be cleaning up this mess and that’s enough reason to go for me; it’s my job to be better than the rest and that makes the day for me.”

My buddy Jonathan wants me to write a blog. When there’s something to say that I haven’t said somewhere else (and when it won’t get me in too much hot water with the boss or the Flying Spaghetti Monster), I will probably oblige him, if only because he will otherwise come up with lots of things for me to do, some of which resemble work.

I’m not really much of a fan of blogs. For one thing, I’ve been a writer most of my life, and I’ve found that too many people who think they have something to say and the right to say it don’t really have anything new to add to the conversation, and should also take advantage of that truism that says that the right to say something is also the right to keep your mouth shut.

One of the exceptions is Big Ed, who has always been one of the most witty (and occasionally, most acerbic) writers I’ve ever known. I’d like to say that he learned it from me as a child, but the odds are much better that he learned from JP. Read his stuff, and give him a little bit of a break because he lives and dies with the Oakland As.

I don’t know that I have all that much to add to the conversation; all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, I have a hard time convincing myself that anything I write is all that profound. In fact there are probably a ton of people who, when they read what I write, are just as happy they don’t have to listen to me, and they will no doubt be quite glad to know there is a page they can bookmark so they never have to look at it again.

“I can’t be the one to fill your times and all your places; I can’t be the one to fill your blanks and empty spaces…”

Writing a blog is such a glorious illusion; I can envision hundreds — millions — of people pecking away in the self-delusional belief that tens of millions of others are looking there every day just to see what magic is wrought from the fingertips and keyboard of the Next Great [Insert Nationality Here] Author. I can also see the Giants in the World Series this year, but that’s another story.

I harbor no such illusions. I wrote (and still write) because there was (is) a story to tell, some information to impart, or an observation to make about whatever happens to be the subject on the table. It’s not that I’m shy about my opinions; it’s that I think most people don’t care; those who do care already know what I think; and anyone who thinks they might care can always ask. But to me, writing is largely solely for the benefit of the writer; for everyone else, it’s at best tedium and at worst what another buddy Kevin calls pollution. I have no desire to contribute to that.

I also know that most of what I’ve written that is of any value is saved only on a dead tree somewhere (or maybe on microfilm), and people were never beating the doors down to get copies of it before. I’m one of the lucky ones; I was able to write when people needed newspapers to do things like start up the barbecue and line the birdcage with. Blogs serve no such useful purpose. It’s not easy to ignore someone who wraps something in a rubber band and throws it on your doorstep; with blogs, the DELETE button becomes your friend. After all, what’s the point in committing something to words if no one is going to read them?

“Some editors are failed writers, but so are most writers.” - T. S. Eliot

Welcome to the Monkey House. We will try to keep you entertained.

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