Shush, you. Yes, I am going to weigh-in on this one. Filtering and self-censorship are difficult for me. My motto, "To know me is to know I can't shut my pie-hole."
I really like this blog, and look forward to reading it:
But I am not sure I agree with that particular post.
I am in a position to encourage writers, of all ages. I have never had a book published (yet--dream #28), and to those of you who look at any reason not to write, all I can tell you is get over yourself. So, because of someone's readership numbers, are you telling me because Neil Gaiman has sold more books than I have, I shouldn't write? Because Stephen King hacks out an awesome novel that still gives me chills to think about (The Shining), I shouldn't think of my own scary stories? If you have something to say, say it, dammit, let the critics be damned. What I suspect is that most creative souls are their own worst critics. If I seriously stopped for one second and let someone like a Stephanie Myers get me down, then all would be lost. If anything, I am going to write those novels as an antidote to the Twilight series. Haters be hating, and I hate those books. Okay. Except for Team Jacob. Okay. Okay. I submit. And she did capture virgin-lust-painful-teenage-longing well. Okay. Whatever.
The Internet has brought me a place to freely express myself. I can make mistakes, write, whine, laugh, and imagine all I want. It is my sandbox, and though once in a while there is some neighborhood cat poop, for the most part, it is damn fun.
I may never publish anything. I may never create a masterpiece like To Kill A Mockingbird, or East of Eden. But I write, and it saves my sanity. It's my sanity, and I'm sticking to it. My numbers? Currently over 17,000. Many of those were looking for Beavis and Butthead, and some Big Bird, but some were looking for me, and my stories. If it were 1,000 or just 1, it doesn't matter. We found each other, and that's what counts.
Postscript: I need a Bear hug.