(see below)

There is an unsurpassable pressure to accompany the birth of a blog, even one of questionable quality such as the one you are reading now, and in my limited serious blogging experience it has mostly to do with the title. Whatever you name it, you must ensure from that point forward your organic thinking, your writing, your self-promoting publishing that you do on this new and exciting endeavor must fall under the heading, the linguistic umbrella beneath which you have to yourself and your readers promised to stay.  If you have a fun name and a bit of wit, you are most definitely in luck, because you can call it a fun rendition of your own name thereby creating the easiest umbrella to write under: the one of all things that have to do with you.

If you are me, and you are not suuuuper witty on the overall scale and you have only a slightly interesting name, you pick a word that suits you for now and hope that something comes to you after you actually get the hang of whatever the hell it is you think you're trying to do right now.  You're self-conscious aware, at least halfway creative, and certainly not a total buffoon, so something will come to you and we need to stop talking about it now before I get hung up on the title for another two paragraphs, which no one needs to read, or write, especially me.

As of now, this blog is for no one to read.  It is not for you or me to read, or anyone who finds it at all for that matter, yet here we are, both of us, writing and reading and talking to each other, playing out voices in our head that technically only exist on screen. Maybe one day it will be for someone to read, once the beast grows and I find the strength to contain him too hard to manage, and he breaks out and unleashes his undeniable hairiness and intrigue on the internet.

Ok you're still reading. It's fine, I couldn't really expect that to work, even with the "blog as a hairy beast" almost-extended metaphor. This blog is not a hairy beast, and in fact, neither am I as I just shaved my February wool last night and my legs are pre-pubescent enough to attract almost any cis-gendered male of the patriarchy.

Here is the truth: this was an icebreaker because I am trying this weird, secretive, probably won't even tell my best friend Nicole about it, blog to get a grip on my writing. On myself too. But I truly think they'll happen simultaneously.  I'm a twenty-something who lives in Paris, originally from the good ol' U.S. of A choot 'em up bang bang!. You'll probably find out a lot about me and the things I like and the people I adore, and the photos I take if you actually take the time to read this. But as I said, this blog is for no one to read.


happy hiding -

H