I think I’ve accepted the fact that the main function of my blog is not to be read by many people or to be a series of cultural analyses meant to entertain and provoke thought but simply to be a running record of my attempt to write my own autobiography. So is my journal. The more I don’t think about it, the more I think about how I’m writing it for a future audience. I won’t kid myself and think that I have a ton of followers, and even though I like to think that I want followers (because I do, and because I enjoy being the center of attention when it’s about my talents, rather than being the center of attention, say, at a ceremony or something), I clearly don’t care that I don’t have any, because I keep posting.
School starts tomorrow, but I only have one class on Mondays. It will be interesting to see how I deal with my four literature courses (Spanish, British through 1660, Victorian, and non-fiction) given that lately I am incapable of reading books as anything but a writer critiquing something for workshop.
Tomorrow I’ll do my official tally of books read this summer. It’s an awesome number, but I hope I can add one more to it if I manage to read the rest of one of the two books I’m reading at work tomorrow. It all counts until I walk into my first class at 3:30.