Art is Infection
Tolstoy said that. (I learned it from Brenda Ueland, who was infected by Tolstoy.)
I sometimes think about it with my writing. “Is this going to infect anyone?” I’ve printed it on a label and stuck it to my monitor, and once in a while I’m reminded to think about it again.
You’re probably safe. I don’t think I’m infectious. With some minimal precautions, you should be fine.
I’m still working on the blog fiction, which is information that I’m sure you’ll find completely uninfectious. I just wanted you to know I’m working at something that I’ll eventually sneeze at you.
I usually don’t like it when writers talk about their work in progress. It’s kind of boring, for one thing, and as a writer, I get annoyed. That they’re writing. Getting words down on the page. Who do they think they are?
But since I am working on it, there goes my time for regular posts. I like the immediacy of posting. It’s more rewarding to post something today that no one will read than work on something for weeks and months and maybe years that no one will read.
I wonder if I can capture any of that feeling of immediacy in the blog fiction. Will you feel like it’s spontaneous, knowing I’ve written some number of posts in advance? Will you get the sniffles?