I read somewhere that trying to publish poetry in America is like throwing a feather into the Grand Canyon and waiting to hear it hit bottom. Heh. I think it’s the same way with bloggers, about whom it has been said, “Never before have so many written so much to be read by so few.” Guilty. Still, I’m a happy nobody.
RtB is three years old today. Can it really be? Looking at the “Archives” menu on your right, I’d say yep, it sho can.
It’s no big deal in the grand scheme of bloggy things, mind. Some blogs have been around for ten years or longer. I can’t hold up my three little candles to those behemoths. But really now, how many blogs about absolutely nothing have run for ten years? Not many, I’ll wager. So, hopefully, I’m off to a good start.
Once again I thank all (90 of) my worldwide readers for stopping by Finkville once in awhile to see if I’d happened upon an intelligent thought overnight. Commenting fiends — and you know who you are — I adore you. I appreciate the folks who read but don’t comment, too, even though I think you’re scaredy cats (come on, really, I’m harmless).
Highest of fives also to my online writing idol, Ross.
This endeavor represents the longest I’ve “kept at” anything outside family and career in my life. I do not possess innate self-discipline, believe it. My mom was always after me to do the daily household chores (“See? If you’ll just fold up your halfslip and put it in the dresser drawer like so, you’ll never lose it again”), and it seems like I fought her at every step. I will let the errant Starbucks cup or Pepsi Max can sit on the garage floor forever. I’ve been losing the same 20 pounds for 30 years. Personal tenacity is not my strong suit.
Therefore, this almost-daily writing odyssey must provide me with some comfort, or a feeling of acceptance and peace in a weary, crazy world. I certainly think so today. So I thank all my fiends for coming to my little party every day (or at least on occasion). I am both happy and humbled that you do.
Fink out (and up) for another year.