by cheri sabraw
Should my blog be instructional? Entertaining? Philosophic? Revealing? Biographical?
Over the past seven years, I have tried to do it all. Surely, some of my loyal readers want to learn, others want to laugh, some want to wrestle with life’s deepest questions, voyeurs want to look through my windows, and the curious (or the bored) want to know about my life–what animates, bothers, excites me.
At this point in my writing career, I often wonder–with the overflow of writing from all ends of the earth–much of it predictable, depending from which source it flows–I wonder what most regular people want to read. I realize the italicized regular will bother some of you out there. My father used to call just salt of the earth people–regular. You know…you say hello and he says, hello.
I now observe men and women reading what we used to call light reading–magazines, newspapers, romance novels, or self-help books. Granted, what one reads on her iPad is now protected from wandering eyes by the sleek black screen, framing words that we have downloaded instead of checked-out from the library, but I haven’t observed anyone reading Angle of Repose lately. I did ride on a Southwest Airlines flight Tuesday in which the woman across the aisle was slogging through Donna Tartt’s latest miserable tome The Goldfinch <yawn> <meh!>.
So maybe instead of fluff or sex or horror, people are reading some of the seminal texts of the past on their iPads?
Would reading such texts make our culture better? (yes)
Would burning People Magazine, Men’s Health, or Cosmopolitan change anything?
Is what we read indicative of who we are? (yes)
Should I write about the aging process, women’s fantasies, the benefits of eating arguably the most unsavory green in the produce aisle–kale?
Should I tell you stories of yore, write social commentary, rhapsodize about art, music, and food?
Maybe I should describe the joy I felt today upon seeing my first baby quail?
Or maybe I should add that immediately after seeing this little puff of feathers, sandwiched in between its monogamous mother and father, running across the desert rock in harmonious syncopation , I worried that the other babies had been eaten. After all, quail usually lay more than one egg.
Perhaps I should write about The Plague by Albert Camus–the book I am reading for a May class. About buboes, fever, quarantine, and fleas? And what is Camus’ point?
Do you read me?