I don’t like LiveJournals.
I don’t like Blogs.
Especially for writers.
I think that they destroy the writer’s mystique. You don’t need to know what I had for breakfast, how I coordinate my underwear drawer, or what me and my wife fight about (which, as far as any of you are concerned is nothing. We rarely fight. She’s bigger than I am. And crazy. But you don’t need to know that either).
Do you know what I want to know about Stephen King or Neil Gaiman? When are they putting out their next story. Maybe the occasional anecdote about the writing life. Maybe, just maybe, an amusing tale from their life. But mostly, I want to know about their work. If they like to prance around in women’s panties, I don’t care (and frankly, don’t want to visualize).
We have this love of celebrity that has gotten out of hand. There are entire shows, entire networks, devoted to the minutia of the comings and goings of celebrities. It’s now to the point where we not only feel like we know these people, but they are obligated to share themselves with us. I’ve never met Jennifer Lopez, I’ve never spoken with Jennifer Lopez, I’m not from her block from back in the day, yet I feel that she’s a high maintenance diva in desperate need of an image overhaul. Why? Because that’s the story that’s been shoved down my throat despite my general disinterest in all things J-Lo or Bennifer.
So you won’t be reading about my struggles with premature ejaculation or anorexia or any of the numerous way-too-personal things that I see on other blogs. Plus, I don’t want you weirdos coming up to me at conventions like you know me, commiserating with me over something personal shared in a blog. I’ve seen it happen to other writers. And even though they handle it gracefully, it still strikes me as creepy. Kinda like loading up your future stalkers with way too much ammo.
In short, I want the mystery. I want the mystique. And whether or not you realize it, you want it, too.