It’s the Not Knowing that Kills You

Photo by Thiébaud Faix on Unsplash

Last week was a particularly disappointing one for my blog1 with views well below even my own normal paltry highs.  I would like to understand why this might have been because, quite frankly, I would like to try to do something about it.  I have read through the week’s posts (and I can only apologise) but I can’t honestly find any particular reason for such a drop-off in readership: everything chugged along just as aimlessly as ever it did.  Tuesday followed its normal eclectic2 path and last week I published a short sketch.  In days of yore I wrote sketches by the dozen.  There was a time when it appeared that people might be interested in them.  Sketch comedy, it seems, no longer exists anywhere other than between my ears, but I like it, so you may get more.  It doesn’t really matter; very few people read the blog on Tuesday.  It is the only day that I currently approach with no semblance of a plan.  Tuesday is me – a decrepit old mirrorball with half of the mirrors hanging off and a troubling amount of smoke coming from the motor that is supposed to make the whole thing turn – so that probably explains a lot.

Wednesday, as has become normal, was a little, nonsensical, vaguely zoological rhyme.  I started these nine months ago and I decided that I could keep them going for a year without quite realising how long that year could be.  Poetry is normally a ‘banker’ for WordPress views.  Mostly it does very well, but not last week.  Was it particularly poor?  Well, it depends upon what you compare it with.  Compared with anything that could even vaguely be described as ‘acceptable’, yes, it is poor, but compared with the rest of my own poetic output it ranks somewhere in the territory of not particularly worse than any of the rest of it, so again I am left without an explanation.  Perhaps it was a little sombre for a nonsense rhyme…  except, except, except, to know that, you’d have had to have read it and hardly anybody did.  Perhaps, dear reader, you have just become bored of the whole concept.  Maybe a year is just too big a stretch.  I haven’t yet given a moment’s thought to what will come on Wednesday this week, but it will be a ‘zoo’ poem.  Beyond that I’m not sure.  I will see out the year because that is what I set out to do.  After that I might bail out of Wednesdays altogether – so book your holidays now.

Thursday has become a regular ‘running diary’ although it is seldom, if ever, about actual running.  It is about… well, if I’m honest, I don’t know what it is about, but whatever it is, it normally occurs to me whilst I am running.  Now I haven’t been well for a week or two, so no running has taken place and perhaps the running diary has, consequently, lost a little relevance3.  I hope to be back running this week and whining about it by Thursday.  I cannot understand how my grindingly lachrymose recollections of a gasping trot through the village could possibly be anything less than entertaining.

And then comes Saturday and The Writer’s Circle.  I really don’t know what I am going to do about Saturday.  Last week’s little episode staggered through the weekend thumbing its nose at a readership that stubbornly remained in single figures.  It is not entirely unusual for these little stories.  Last week’s was a part two and as with all part two’s (except, perhaps, for Toy Story, Star Wars [although that, obviously, was actually part V] and The Godfather) it paid the price, but I have to recognise, I think, that I have created a bunch of people here – rather like the Shadow Cabinet – that absolutely nobody cares about.  I think I might have been mixing up ‘interesting’ with ‘amusing’ and winding up with something that is neither one nor th’other: clearly interusing does not buy me readers.

I feel that I might have to find a way of giving myself a kick up the butt without falling flat on my arse4.  It may not be quick and it may not be pretty, but I will try to find a way5.  Until then, I can only ask you to bear with me and, if possible, try to read everything twice, just in case it should ever improve. 

After all, you never know6

1 I realise that for those of you who habitually read this nonsense, disappointment is a stalker: if you cannot get an injunction, you will find it an ever-present nuisance.
2 Tuesday does what it does.  I have no explanation for it.
3 I am uncertain as to what the loosest possible definition of the word ‘relevance’ is called, but this is undoubtedly an example of it.  Originally I used the word ‘urgency’ but I had to change it after I realised that I haven’t even approached any degree of urgency since puberty.
4 ©
5 Although, for now, all that I really have to offer is a navel that has been gazed at so often it has just got itself an agent.  If only I was somebody else, what fun I could have writing about me.
6 At least, I never do, although, truth be told, I never did.

As ever, answers (in not more than your own words) on a postcard (or a stuck-down envelope) please…