My Weeping Angel is a computer monitor. It saps my energy by holding me captive to its unending stream of information and word processing capabilities. I get my news, entertainment and friendly communication from it. I manage accounting records, shop and listen to music on it. I churn out blog posts, clean up photos and write short stories and even a novel while staring at it.  I do not blink, but I’m still going to be sent back in time – to a time when a writer used pens and paper and not a keyboard.

I have just been diagnosed with recurrent corneal erosion syndrome. Yes, it’s a thing. If you just snorted in derision, well, I did too. No visit to a doctor goes without exit baggage of a syndrome or disorder or complex. I tend to avoid those trips at all costs. But I woke up this morning, as I have numerous mornings over the last few weeks, with blinding, stinging eyeball pain. I could wait no longer.

What I had assumed was eye strain was an actual injury caused by an abrasion and dry, old eyes. Opening my eyes from a deep night’s sleep meant ripping off layers of corneal cells, exposing nerves and causing severe pain and light sensitivity.  I have a treatment plan prescribed by the optometrist. I will follow it – goop in my eyes at night, drops 3-4 times a day, and fish oil supplements (blech).

Whenever a physical malady hits me, I turn it into a statement about myself as a person. Intellectually I know it’s wrong. The optometrist was kind and non-judgmental, but all I could think was “that’s what you get for being on the computer all the time, you slob”. When you are looking at a monitor, you blink 4 times less than you normally would, which is why so many people get dry eyes. On top of that, I apparently don’t blink fully. Ever. More weird shit I didn’t need to know about myself.

So, I must spend the weekend coming up with a new plan for writing, blogging and everything in between. I have to transition to doing most of my initial drafts off line, rearrange my office so that my monitor is not situated against a wall – allowing my eyes to frequently change focal points.

I felt pretty depressed coming out of the eye doctor’s office, but my brain usually can rewrite the code and come up with a better perspective. I’ll take this as an opportunity to realign my priorities, figure out what I must do online and what can be done without being plugged in. It’s a decluttering to clear my vision in more than one way. While I’m resting my eyes and getting all this sorted, whatever you do, make sure you blink.

I love to read. I am reading constantly. But I have a peculiar aversion to things that a lot of other people like. If something is on a bestseller list or labelled a “classic”, it automatically falls to the bottom of the wish list for me. I will read it. Eventually. Maybe. Not ever.

I know more about books than I’ve actually read in full. I’ve never made it through Moby Dick or War and Peace and here it is, folks: I’m not a fan of Austen. Doff your hankies and pummel me with your pre-Victorian disgust. I can take it. I read weird, unrelated genres. I find random books that I have to get through inter-library loan because nobody wants to read them unless they’re doing research.

I am generally reading 5-6 books at a time, picking them up depending on mood, amount of time, ability to focus, etc. This is the current stack of books on my reading table:

• The Death and Return of the Author: Criticism and Subjectivity in Barthes, Foucault and Derrida by Sean Burke
• Moscow but Dreaming by Ekaterina Sedia, a collection of Science Fiction short stories
• Why We Write: 20 Acclaimed Authors on How and Why They Do What They Do, Edited by Meredith Maran
• Into the Garden with Charles by Clyde Phillip Wachsberger
• The Wisdom of Compassion by the Dalai Lama and Victor Chan
• Five Decades: Poems 1925-1970 by Pablo Neruda

This pile reflects how busy I’ve been lately – everything is digestible in small bites. When life slows down, I have more fiction, full length novels in the stack. When I’m in need of inspiration, I have random poetry books to read. I am especially fond of Neruda, Wordsworth, Auden and Tagore.

It makes me sound like a highbrow intellectual or a snobbish “indie reader”, but my reading habits are more about curiosity and discovery. What I read supports my interest or passion at the moment. Like Wikipedia links, one book leads to another and I follow the trail until I’m ready to move on to the next topic. Any subject you have an interest in is much fewer than six degrees of separation from something you’ve never explored.

This is the beauty of bookstores or libraries. I am on a literary safari, digging through the piles to find that gem that sparks interest, inspiration, ideas. I often wonder if I’m a truly a literary reader, especially when I hear people wax poetic about a book that they read over and over. I have some standby favorites that I promise to myself I’ll read again in my dotage. I probably won’t, though. There’s so much more I want to explore, experience and absorb – and so little time.

As a writer, I worry that I’m really missing the boat by not trudging through Joyce or Chaucer. I also worry that I know the plot lines and characters to a hundred times more books than I’ve actually read. I’m a walking Cliff’s Notes for popular literature, while I can frequently kill a conversation by making references to books no one has ever read. I am also the person who can gush on excitedly about a novel that fell off the bestseller list two decades ago. If nobody’s talking about it anymore, it’s my discovery. Even if it sounds like I just fell out of a time machine.

I am an indiscriminate reader – from cereal boxes to academic tomes on botany. If there is a new perspective, information, ideas, I’ll dive into obscure text. I’m not hip enough to adore Gaiman, intellectual enough to discuss Tocqueville or poetic enough to wade through artistic language without dozing off. Tell me a good story, teach me something, lead me to unexplored territory – this is what I look for when I want to read. It’s a book club of one, but I am rarely interrupted and I can always count on good snacks.

I don’t like hugs as a form of greeting. There. I said it. I hug and snuggle with my daughter. I hug my husband daily. I am physically affectionate with my immediate family. I have relatives and friends who laugh and say “I know you don’t like hugs, but hahaha” before engulfing me in corporeal suffocation. Okay. Now, not only do I not like hugs, but I also don’t like you, jackass. I’m a direct person. If I say I don’t like something, trust me – I’m being sincere.

I’ve been asked why I have such an aversion to this form of affection. They suspect I have been abused. I have not – at least not in any way that makes me jump at human touch. My sense of smell is intense. Perfumes, deodorants, hairspray, facial makeup, fabric softener – these things bother me. Walking around the rest of the day with Eau de Alcohol on me serves as a constant irritant. I also don’t need to know your cup size. I do not need your breasts smashed up against me. I’m not a mammographer – I’m sure you can see your own doctor.

I don’t like the cult of motherhood. Save your holiday, I expect to get treated kindly and with respect year round. And I am, so let’s not mess up my day with false sentimentality. I could have spent yesterday gardening and lounging around in yoga pants, but instead I had to get dressed up to go to an overpriced restaurant to dine while surrounded by complete strangers. It’s not like I would have cooked anything at home anyway. My family knows their way around peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and they’ve yet to pass out without me feeding them regularly. I’ve tested this repeatedly.

My family would have preferred low-key as well, but they caved into the pressure to make the day special. My dear family, if you want to make my day special, pick up your dirty dishes, don’t ask me 50 times where things are and hey, when I ask you for a pressure washer, I mean it. That fence isn’t cleaning itself and I have some deck staining to do.

I’m sick of extremists.  Of any ilk. If you cannot see the world in gray scale or rainbows or differences, if everything has to be black and white, then you are a simpleton. Continue commenting on CNN articles and calling into talk radio shows, Facebooking your tired, trite opinions. If you have to tag your opposition with cutesy labels, it is likely you are just repeating shit you’ve heard elsewhere. No one is mistaking your parroting for critical thinking.

And finally, would somebody stop those e card creators with the Victorian silhouettes and that poorly drawn yelling character? Holy shit, I’ve already seen them in one form or another – you are not discovering anything new. If you have nothing to say, then feel free to stop forwarding me crap and just sit there quietly.

In case you think I’m a cold, heartless harpy, it’s quite possible. Normally, I believe I’m generous, respectful, hardworking and thoughtful. Some days, though, I’d just like to tap out. I’ve had a month that has smashed me flat. I’m tired. I’m scattered in my thinking. I feel like I could nap endlessly and eat my body weight in Cherry Garcia.

I haven’t been writing. I’m barely blogging – both things that give me genuine pleasure. I’ve been dealing with sick cats, funerals, volunteer work, paid work, some personal low points and a sense that I’m barely keeping my head above water. Things that I shrug off are now getting shrieked off. Hugs make me want to back fist faces and holidays make me want to pretend I’m really, really sick and can somebody just get me more ice cream?

I am no longer burning the candle at both ends. I’m just stuck in a puddle of cooled wax, wickless and dull. A friend mentioned that a recurring theme of my blog was balance and she’s right. I’m either regaining, losing, searching for or maintaining some degree of balance – like most people, I imagine. Now that I’ve gotten this irritable post out of my system, I’m going to gather my senses, take a hot shower and get on with life.

For the second time in as many months, I had to address my daughter’s school assembly last week, an audience that numbered 600+ people. That’s 1200+ eyes looking at me. It’s hard to imagine a greater hell, except if the assembly were in a mall. And I were standing near a smoothie stand whose blenders occasionally chimed in, while a small child shrieked in the background.

I have never done this before – spoken in front of such a large group. In high school, I competed in speech contests and performed in plays. I have a strong speaking voice. I practice a lot. I never, ever imagine my audience naked. First of all, in an elementary school that might make me a “person of interest”. Secondly, I am the one who feels naked – open to rejection and mockery on a grand scale. My legs shook so badly during a contest once, that friends pointed it out in jest. Ex-friends. My deodorant usually surrenders five minutes into a speech and I’m always afraid the stress will have me delivering a poorly received F-Bomb right into the microphone.

None of those things seem to impact performance time, though. Everything went well. A friend told me that she just pretended she was a rock star that people paid to see. Really? I just try not to pass out. It’s a curious sort of masochism. Yes, I know I will be anxious and sleepless the night before. Yes, I know I will feel like throwing up and that faces in the audience will suddenly seem disapproving. Some people like amusement parks, but I prefer my own reality show – bring on the fear factor! This mentality does not extend to eating bugs, though. Crunchiness needs to come from breading, not legs and mandibles.

When people talk about their comfort zone, I’ve always made the assumption that I liked to challenge myself and leave the “zone” on a regular basis. The closer truth is that my comfort zone lies between routine and constant change. I fear a static life. I fear that moment that has transformed many sentient beings into complete duds, when they decide: I’ve learned all I want to know. If my Maslow basics are stable: work, home, family – everything else is fair game to try. Except bug eating.

Having spent time in the military, rock climbing and working out at the gym, I’m familiar with the adrenalin junkie mentality. I’ve never been one drawn towards jumping out of perfectly functioning airplanes, climbing a mountain just because it’s there or running the rapids because I had a free weekend. I was born a cautious old lady. There is a rush, though, in doing things that absolutely terrify you. It changes you ever so slightly and opens the door to the world just a crack more.

In my twenties, I always assumed by now that I would have learned most of what I needed to know. I thought I’d be wise and brave and confident. This year, as I turn 46, I am delighted to say that I was absolutely wrong. I have enough wisdom to recognize that I know less than what remains to be learned and that there are still personal challenges on the horizon. Without bugs. And with clothes. Mostly.

A Northern Flicker captured my attention for the good part of an hour on Saturday. They’re the only woodpecker that walks along the ground to find food, hopping back and forth between ground and surrounding trees. Rabbits graze in the yard, delighted by the salad bar now revealed. Gnawed bushes and shrubs show evidence that they did what they needed to do to survive the deep snows.

Black-capped chickadees are flitting in and out of the dried grape vines and robins are hopping about, gathering up their body weight in grass for nests in progress. Mallards are squawking loudly when neighborhood cats are in the proximity. The ducks have picked a nesting site near the drainage creek that has formed at the bottom of the yard.

It’s been too long. It’s taken us a few days to catch on that winter is gone. Pale and mole-like, people come outside, shading their eyes against the brilliant sunlight. We see neighbors that we haven’t seen in months. Everyone is a little pudgier. The melted snow has left vestiges of salt and sand everywhere. Children wobble haphazardly on bikes – a momentary lapse in memory. An old man roars by on a motorcycle, a declaration of resilience. He made it through another winter.

People have thrown themselves into a flurry of activity – yard work, roof fixing, car washing. They’ve spent months using their labor capital for shoveling and making vehicles run, walking recalcitrant dogs, who lifted paws in protestation of the bitter cold. The pent up energy needs to run its course before hammocks and lemonade and a need for shade.

I am taking the week off to take it all in. I can hardly make myself sit still or be in front of the computer. My winter-addled mind drags me out into the sunshine, unable to stay inside one minute longer. Spinach and green bean seeds to sow, patches of garden to till, soil samples to send…this is the world I dreamed of in January, while flipping morosely through my seed catalog. It’s finally here and I’m going outside to reacquaint myself with the light. Keep well, my friends.

I like that idea. I like the idea that whatever fiction I write, it will stand or fall on its own merit. And I can go back in my corner and write some more. Blogging is a little different, but it’s easy to spot the writers who blog. Bill over at Pinklightsabre’s Blog is a storyteller. His narratives are personal and authentic, but I read them with a slight envy. There is a distance in his tales that lets the reader take it in, but not necessarily feel the need to engage. Tricky for a blogger, but when the writing’s the thing, the story, not the author, is what matters.

Personal narratives are fiction as well. It is the construct in our own minds – how we perceive our own lives and experiences. I have written about the domestic violence I grew up with. It elicited an emotional response from some readers, which sometimes made me feel awkward. It’s my story, but it’s about a person a long time ago, about issues that I’ve long since resolved in my own mind. I rarely write about things that are raw and unprocessed – a rough draft of disorganized memories and unfocused feelings is not skilled work. Writing is the art of giving shape and form to a story, whether it be personal essay or a work of fiction.

This idea of a work being able to stand on its own merit, with no knowledge of the biases or history of the writer, is a freedom we can give to readers. I saw an interview with the author Cormac McCarthy regarding punctuation. I’ll be damned if that did not entirely ruin reading his books for me. I could not stop noticing the lack of punctuation, spending the entire time arguing with myself about the merits of a comma. Had I not seen that interview, I would have read his work, liking or disliking it on its own merits.

Many years ago, I took a literature class that included Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels. Scholars took an opposite tact, divining aspects of Swift’s character from his writing. I find that notion scary and inaccurate. I didn’t take away a better understanding of satirical writing, but I will forever remember Swift as a scatophile and misogynist. That kind of description of an author’s character, derived from his or her writing, is enough to bring a writer’s creative license to a screeching halt.

Barthes’ article refers to the traditional telling of tales. There was the story and then the teller or shaman or mediator – the human bridge between a story, often of unknown origin, and its audience. Writers are exhorted to “find your voice” from workshops to the legions of writing advice books. There’s a note of narcissism – this sense that you are your own cult of personality. But that voice is an amalgam of experiences, conversations, sights – sources that may never be sorted and categorized. Who knows if a conversation I heard on the Metro eons ago has been recreated on a page. It’s not part of my conscious recollection.

Works of art, writing and music are often more admirable than the creators. It can be a work that transforms and inspires and moves you to tears. It’s better not to know that it was sung, written or painted by some drug-addled dilettante or wife beating anti-Semite. We need to stop lauding, judging or fawning over creators and start looking at the work. Karma will out if the human behind it has an agenda, a manufactured motivation. The work will not stand.

Writing is a marvelous human endeavor, but to try and suss out the actual human is an exercise in futility. It is a chronic issue today, when everyone feels the need to know everything about everyone else. We often know more about a writer or actor or musician than about their work and accomplishments. It denigrates the level of discourse and misses out on the real beauty of art – to appreciate it on its own merits and through our own eyes. It should be a personal journey, not a tour bus of flawed strangers whispering in our ears.

Here are some other blogging storytellers that I enjoy reading:

Tales of travel at Adventures in Wonderland

Clear-eyed narration of troubling stories at What’s Broken

A favorite of mine – funny nature narratives and great pictures at theeffstop and her family tales at The King of Isabelle Avenue

A compelling tale at Bethany’s Story

I began to drift mentally. I flopped down in the middle of a productive day to be decidedly useless. I perused the books on my shelves, listened to Keb’ Mo’ on repeat and said “no” to everything else. We got hit with a huge snowstorm last week, so primal urges to be out and in the dirt gardening were squashed. There’s nothing to be done but wait it out.

Drifting can be an uncomfortable state for me. I have calendars and lists and reminders popping up on my phone and on my computer. I have sticky notes and files and some days I’m organized down to the millisecond. It makes me efficient, prepared, a “together” kind of person, able to juggle work and volunteering and parenting and domesticity in a single bound. Until I hit that wall.

I begin to absentmindedly dismiss all the electronic reminders and start to lose things. I laugh erratically when I realize I’ve walked out the door with an unmatched pair of running shoes on (true story). A sticky note is stuck to my elbow (also true). I can’t remember where I was supposed to go first and start muttering out loud. A little panic sets in. The sense that I’ve forgotten something overwhelms me and I’m paralyzed by anxiety.

There is a feeling that it will all come crashing down on me. That I will soon be revealed for the disheveled heap of forgetfulness and irresponsibility that resides at my core. I sit down. I’m exhausted. As my heartbeat slows, the noose loosens, I pick up a book or ten. I don’t really read, just flipping through words, words, words. My mind opens and thoughts of where I have to be and what I need to do dissipate, clearing the way for random, disorganized and unfocused thoughts.

The meaning of time begins to change. It stops being measured by the clock and starts drifting. I start to think about all the writers throughout the centuries, all of us grasping for meaning or notoriety or to get it all out. It’s really an amazing pursuit. I’ve missed writing the last couple of weeks. I caught up on correspondence, doing that time-consuming old-fashioned task of writing longhand letters, some illegible as hastily scrawled notations on a prescription pad. Writing longhand sets me back in time, when I filled pages trying to find meaning.

Sometimes, when I look at my books, mournful thoughts emerge. I will never live long enough to learn all that I want to learn. My books, some unread, sit hopefully on a side table. They remind me that I have a lifetime of intention that must be fit, if I’m fortunate, into a limit of decades. Sad thoughts follow quickly, as I thought about the many lives lost this week. There was Boston, then Texas, Iraq and an earthquake in China. Lost potential, lost years to grief. My thoughts are petty in comparison.

I took my time vacuuming and folding laundry – physical, but neither demanding nor mentally taxing. I took care of my possessions, dusting mementos and books and picture frames. Possessions are both important and not. It is the care that we take with them that imbue them with value, not ownership. It is the reminder of friends or times long past, but held dear. I hung a new piece of artwork, sent by one of my blogging buddies, a reminder of whimsy and new friendship and the value of something handmade or drawn.

I helped my daughter do some crafting projects, ate dinner with family, talked to the cats who have been repeatedly ignored and tripped over this last week. I touched base with all those people and things that put my “to do” lists into perspective. They are the reason that I do.

Today, I plan more of the same. Unfocused thinking, book browsing, another walk on a snowy, gray day, writing here and there. And when tonight comes, my breathing finally full and natural again, my love of books and writing reignited, and gratitude for being alive refreshed, then I will sit down and write my list for Monday.

I stand for life in the face of death.

I stand for peace in the face of war.

Pablo Picasso

I love the doves we hear and see in our yard when the weather is nice enough to have the windows open. Their gentle cooing speaks to cool spring mornings, when a slight breeze blows across my face – the smell foretelling of rain. Their presence is familiar and comforting. Those mornings seem far off now. There is snow, covered in frozen rain, that is crunchy and the days are cold and blustery. I cannot yet hear the doves calling to one another.

I saw the stories from Boston and felt bone-weary. We’ve been here before – the random unfocused fear, the tip of the iceberg of grief – we touch it with our minds briefly and pull back in discomfort. To feel so much at a distance only gives a hint of what people at its vortex must be suffering. We retreat into our own fears, our daily lives that pull us along, past bomb wreckage and bullet casings. We turn off the TV and turn our attention to the minutiae, momentary distractions from a trip to the mall that might go wrong, a family event destroyed, a bus ride disrupted. Wrong place. Wrong time.

Our intellectual selves run through all the editorials, the spins, the need for comprehension and we come up empty-handed. All these years and we know little and understand even less. We forget and push aside the randomness of our existence. We don’t think about the anger and discontent that swirls around us. We can’t. We’re not experts. Or superheroes. Or even all that observant at times. Some turn inward to prayer or meditation. Some coil up with fear or spring forward in rage. It’s all just the pointless flapping of wings. Until we wear ourselves out and settle down.

I don’t think I’ll flap my wings. Maybe I will skip all of that and start from a place of calm. Knowing my limitations, maybe I’ll donate to the Red Cross in Boston. Maybe I’ll hold my own 8 year old a few moments longer tonight, letting the soft skin of her cheek brush against the middle-aged, winter dried of my own. Maybe I’ll drift off into a dreamless sleep, knowing that each moment is borrowed time. And tomorrow, the comfortable, familiar presence of friends and family will remind me of the curious willingness to embrace renewal and life – no matter how many times predators strike.

I’ve spent a lifetime concerned about sounding, looking and being stupid. The definition of stupid means something different to practically everyone. We teach youngsters not to use the word, since, if you’re 5, it gets used to describe everything. To me, as an adult, calling anything stupid smacks of arrogance and simplistic thinking. Please, explain. What is it about the situation that defies intelligence? What is it about that person that suggests they know nothing? Use your words. There is a tinge of political correctness in all of this, since so often “stupid” was used to describe people with neurological and biochemical challenges.

If the popularity of “The Big Bang Theory” is any indicator, being smart comes with unintended side effects – which, in many cases, lands almost all of these characters on the Autism spectrum. I have friends who are diehard fans of the show, but I find stereotypes unappealing. I know traditionally smart people – scientists, computer programmers, mathematicians. They’re also great friends, parents, writers, volunteers – warm and socially engaging people. When I hear the tired nerd, geek and Trekkie jokes, I cringe.

I’m a relatively intelligent person, but I’m not a genius in any sense of the word. I’ve done well in school, but I was an awful student. I have classroom narcolepsy, procrastination of any kind of test prep and a patent disinterest in getting academic information from other humans. I retain what I read, so if I see something written, I can generally recall it. Tell me your name at a party, I’ll forget it two minutes later. Wear a name tag and I’ll know you for life. Except now, as middle age is creeping in, my skills are getting fuzzier. Maybe my brain has figured out that there’s no point in retaining information I’m unlikely to use again (a child’s justification for not doing algebra – I’m so mature!).

School is one of our first personal indicators of intelligence. Grades, stickers, praise or the red pen. We start forming ideas about whether we are smart. At home, depending on what our parents or guardians value, we get messages that we might be a little genius or the dullest knife in the drawer. Intelligence gets cited more often if we show up, participate, turn in our work on time and don’t try to shove our pencils in little Billy’s ear.

I grew up believing I was smart, because I was an early reader. Reading is highly valued in my family.  It protected me for awhile from social interaction, which I found quite painful. In 4th grade, I was sent to a speech therapist, because I did not speak correctly – likely from not speaking much at all. Even as an adult, I’ve pronounced words incorrectly because I’ve never heard some of them spoken – having only read them in books.

As I got older, reading intelligence was not enough. I longed for friends and to stop being picked last for the team. I longed not to be this four-eyed shadow in the corner hoping simultaneously to be noticed and ignored. I stepped out of the corner. I tried everything – especially things that terrified me.

If I were ever to use the word hate in real context, it is to say I hate fear. If I am afraid of doing something, I will find the most extreme example and make myself do it. Scared to talk to people? High school speech club. Scared of losing in front of people? Joined the track team (I am a sloooow runner!). Scared of heights? Rock climbing. I am not fearless – I’m chock full of fears, but I find pleasure in setting ‘em up and knocking ‘em down.

I joined the Army as a linguist, having tested very high on the basic entrance exam and the language aptitude tests. Relative intelligence. It’s ironic to be told you’re smart when you have very little in the way of life experience. I was SO smart that I became a binge drinker with a penchant for dating loose cannons. I made incredibly poor decisions in practically every area of my life, but I tested well as a linguist.

So when I consider my unscientific intelligence, I value what works for me, what has contributed to my survival and my growth. I’ll never be an Ivy Leaguer or cure cancer or write literature that will withstand the test of time. Statistically speaking, most of us won’t. I will address my daughter’s entire elementary school assembly while having an anxiety attack. I will write out loud and publicly. I will seize opportunities, talk to strangers, make commitments, learn new hobbies, challenge myself at every opportunity. I don’t plan on being comfortable…ever.

What about you? Did you grow up with one idea about your intelligence and discover something else entirely as an adult? What do you value in terms of intelligence and how have institutional definitions of intelligence affected your opinions of yourself?

I’ve been out of circulation for the last week. I’ve been extremely busy following through on some volunteer commitments. I was astonished to see that my readership had jumped an unbelievable 15% in a week – without having written a single thing. The WordPress bot attacks reported in the news are in relation to denial of service attacks with the WordPress.org installation, so this is a separate issue.

To the people who have legitimately read and found something here that appeals to them, I sincerely thank you. I have so many great “conversations” with you and I value the time that you have taken to read, like and/or comment on a post. I am slow to catch up on my reading, but I try to visit each and every subscribed reader’s blog. Sometimes I follow it as well, if I find a subject that resonates or the writing or story is compelling.

However, with spam followers – there is NO indication that they have read the blog – no corresponding likes or comments by them. I will not be visiting their sites without some evidence that they have read the blog.

I don’t do courtesy follows. If I follow your blog, I will eventually read, like or comment on your posts. To do otherwise, would skew your numbers and not be respectful of the work and time you put into writing and establishing your blog. I am one person and can only read so many blogs. I will occasionally review the list of blogs I follow and cull the ones that have gone into retreat, just posted on how to eat babies or skin kittens, or have decided to reblog on a regular basis. I try to follow blogs for original content, context and conversation.

To my fellow bloggers, I would encourage you to implement this policy as well. It discourages spam followers and maintains a level of integrity in the system.

Regularly scheduled programming will return to this blog tomorrow.