As of February 4, 2017, I’ve written 98 posts to this online journal. Not all of them are public. Most of ’em no one reads.
Only 26 of these posts focus on companion animal advocacy – dogs and related concerns that help make my life livable.
That’s roughly 27.53% of my content.
Yet that topic category receives roughly 97% of what traffic this blog actually gets.
So, yeah, WordPress makes it easy for me to see what “my readers” like. And lets me know that my advocacy for dogs and other animals is the only thing I have in common with 97% of them.
Since my first post on July 26, 2012:
451,426 views. 166 different countries. Those two numbers make me feel like I’m trapped in a free-falling elevator in the Twilight Zone surrounded by aliens. I’m not even gonna share how many times people looked up my “about” info (now private) or my gravatar.
WordPress also tells me that – when I had the commenting feature on – my posts got 317 legitimate comments and 5,316 spam comments (thankfully, the site quarantined those so I could move them to the trash). Seriously?
Allowing commenting is not, for every single person who writes a blog, an invitation to ’round-the-clock interactive conversation. Readers these days appear to expect that. There’s no genuine privacy on the web, but I like to pretend I don’t have to allow 500,000 individuals plus advertisers, bots, scam artists, and the government into my house all day, any day, like a diner that serves breakfast 24/7/365. As a shy introvert who deals with chronic depression and social anxiety, I don’t have the desire or energy for full access. I also don’t have the time or energy to rein in the handful of people who get so incensed over something I write that they stalk me across social media and my private and work email accounts to tell me how much I suck or how wrong I am. Screw that.
So I turned off commenting. I don’t have my contact info out there. I will ask you – right here, point-blank – not to send me Facebook friend requests based on something I’ve blogged. My dialogue circle is tiny and I like it that way.
I don’t write for clicks, views, shares, repeat visits, followers, accolades or critiques or opposing viewpoints.
I write because I write. That’s it. Like breathing, or eating, or sleeping.
When the mood hits me. About what’s on my mind. Whether people read it, like it, approve of it, or not.
A blog keeps my written stuff in one place. I’ve got twenty times the original written content on my hard drive, but it’s a chaotic madhouse there. More like a natural disaster site than a library. And 97% of you wouldn’t find one bit of it interesting or entertaining. Of the remaining 3%, half of you might get it, and the other half might waste time trying to use it against me.
So… what’s the point of this particular rambling post?
Local, regional and global concerns more urgent than companion animal advocacy occupy my spare thinking time right now. My paying job – the one that keeps me from starvation and homelessness – occupies the rest.
Like many American misfits capable of individual critical thinking, I’m in survival mode. If I lose my entire readership because I’m either not writing, or writing stuff my readership dislikes or doesn’t care about, I’m OK with that. Since neither this blog nor this life is the Hotel California, I can check out any time I like. AND leave.
Please be well.
Footnote: In the three hours immediately following the publication of this post, 60 followers stopped following The Little Green Inn (presumably by social media). Just another interesting statistic.