Today the Whining Stranger received his first ever comment, after checking obsessively over the past week to see if anybody had left any kind of feedback to his various noodlings and bagatelles. To see a comment was a bit of an exciting turn, confirming as it did that somebody other than the WS and the WS's partner had actually taken a look at some of the material on this blog. It was a small-scale version of the relief castaways might feel when the helicopter tuh-tuh-tuhs down on to the beach, when some earnest cat in khaki shorts and a pith helmet says, "Fear not. We found your message. The one in the bottle. We knew you were here. And hey, you're writing's not so bad."
As well, the moment makes me continue to question why I've become addicted so quickly and so easily to blogging after resisting it for so long. My partner and I had this conversation at least twice this week--about trying to discern who/what a blog is for. When she asked me why I was bummed about no comments I told her that it'd be nice to know somebody read something and found it interesting/moving/funny, etc. She replied, "So you want fans?" But then I had to rethink my response. It's not that I'm inviting fandom so much ("Hey, Whining Stranger, you are one funny dude; you wear cool sneakers; can I be your friend?) as some kind of random, unanticipated connection. Some kind of community that I didn't forsee as we endure a sometimes isolated life in [unnamed, dusty college town]. Maybe something more like, "Hey, Whining Stranger, I too think George Plimpton is the bomb." Or, "Fuggin' Pistons. Whatever will we do if they don't win tonight..." Or, whatever. It's hard to imagine what you're trying not to anticipate.
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