My Work, My Loss

A long time ago, I was not careful.  Some internet sites had linked my name with my work and my blog so that anyone who knew me and was interested enough could eventually find me here.  It happened last night with someone, and as has happened so many times before with women who read my writing (whether in the form of journals or a blog). . . . 

I think I will have to take this blog down.  Over the years it has caused me trouble.  It doesn't seem fair and the site has never brought me fame nor fortune.  Perhaps it is time to try to turn my attention to things that will benefit me in the future.  Maybe I'll kill the studio as well.  An anonymous artistic life that serves a few hundred people is hardly a reason to compromise the rest of your life unless you are truly mad.  I am not.  I am far too reasonable and rational. 

I like to tell myself that there are no other photographers posting a picture a day for as long as I have. I like to tell myself that there are few other writers outside of journalists who post a writing a day.  I am pretty convinced that there is no one doing both simultaneously.  It is more work than is reasonable for no return except a sense of personal satisfaction. 

Except that I don't seem to be able to stop.  If I kill this blog, I will start another one, probably, more anonymous, harder to link to my identity.  For those of you who have corresponded with me over the years, I will send you a link if you send me an email.  I don't know.  I'm just feeling stung right now.  Perhaps tomorrow I will feel that I have been served an injustice.  But I cannot tell tales when people associate it all literally with the real person and not the narrator.  Hemingway suffered this, too, when he wrote "The Sun Also Rises," but he benefited more, heralded as the writer of his time.  He made lots of money.  And he never based his work on people he knew again.  I, on the other hand. . . am just some silly oaf. 

Someday it will all end any way, one way or another.