Why?

Why do I write this blog?  As my mother said at the very beginning, it can't be a blog just about me, because then who cares?  And if it's a blog about what it means or what it takes to be a writer, then what authority do I have?  And if it's a blog about someone pursuing unlikely dreams, then who cares until I succeed?  No matter what I can't win and am likely to not ever attain a readership above five.  Five might even be too high of an estimation at this point.

Oh the shame.  Paraphrasing Barton Fink: I'm a writer for God's sakes!  You fools, I create art!  Nowadays I feel like the writing profession, and all other artistic endeavors, aren't given a whole lot of respect.  Sure, guys and gals might dig a writer or poet, but only if they're a writer or poet by hobby... or if you write lovey-dovey stuff.  I've lost count of how many girlfriends I've had that expected me to write something for them, because that's what writers do, right?  Unbelievable.  We get no respect.  Whatever happened to the days when a writer was respected simply for taking up the pen and putting it to good use?  Why must I succeed, whatever that means, for my writing to have value?  Yes, I may be dipping into a despairing melancholy, but I also don't understand how our cultural attitudes make sense.  Good works are just supposed to be thrown into our lap, I guess.

So why do I write this blog?  Truthfully, I'm beginning to forget.  One day, if I get published, this blog might be fun for me and more than five readers.  But that day seems much further off than I would like.  The light at the end of the tunnel has become a speck in my vision, occasionally blocked out of view entirely.