I accidentally bought a book yesterday; I'm surprised I haven't done this before. I enabled one click at Amazon to facilitate the Kindle addiction that's cropped up since I've been stuck in bed. I clicked through from a link at BlogHer to Life From Scratch by Melissa Ford. (Melissa is facilitating NaBloPoMo.) So I downloaded the book, unaware, right before I purposely bought Ellen DeGeneres' newest book, which is awful.
So, as it turns out, Melissa Ford's book is very endearing and well-written and I'm enjoying it like cheesecake. I've decided that I love books by bloggers, based on Julie & Julia (but dear GOD not the movie...) and "Scratch." I like the style of these bloggy authors, and of course the heroines are just like me, except for having comments in the hundreds, and having food themes. Or having, you know, themes. So I've vaguely queued up in my head other blogger writers. I think I want to read Heather Armstrong's books, after having sort of dismissed them as too... obvious? I have some stupid knee-jerk idea that I wouldn't like them because she's so popular. Stupid in that she's popular because that woman can write like a mofo. It's like when Nine Inch Nails released The Downward Spiral and by the fall of 1994 every frat boy in the country was sporting NIN t-shirts and my goth boyfriend and I had a full time job making fun of them. I argued with friends that Trent was not newly lame; he was merely so talented that he broke mainstream. (Please note that I now feel the need to urge Mr. Reznor to stop writing lyrics after the nauseating word usage in The Fragile and subsequent works, but that I still rave about his musical genius based on recent film scores.)
A strange thing I feel reading novels/memoirs by bloggers is a kind of intimidation. There's some voice in my head whispering statistics of how many bloggers there are, and what a tiny percentage ever earn a book deal. Thinking about publishing that way suddenly becomes discouraging, although when I think from the perspective of an artist/writer who has a great, quirky idea and the skill to execute it, I feel effortlessly confident that as soon as I complete the Elephant Girl book, it'll obviously be a matter of work and time until it's an epic bestseller. Or a weird, groovy little cult hit.
Maybe somehow the word blogger has taken on connotations of amateur or wannabe in my mind. Most likely, it's a very complicated knot of over-thinking and excuse-manufacturing. It really doesn't matter, though. As long as the crazy still melts away when I open the compose page or the sketchbook, I'll manage the neuroses. At the moment, I'm going to escape into my Kindle app and read if Rachel is able to pull off the Spanish dessert for her yummy new boyfriend.