Apparently blogs have developed a distinctive style, not entirely admirable but certainly identifiable. It's kind of (that's one of the key phrases) a down-home attitude, just-us-folks approach, and sort of (yeah, like that) sort of homey, and unprepossessing (a word it wouldn't be caught flaunting). (Steel-reinforced) toe digs shyly in the sand attempting an aw-shucks demeanour. (Who, me? Little ol' me?)The fake casual effect is seeping into essays. Is that word (essay) still used? How about familiar essay, as opposed to formal, school, academic essay? Or the saints or heaven, whichever comes first, preserve us, - the political essay? Blog is not militant; blog is chummy; blog becomes companion; blog is diary; blog is daily blah.

I had people for brunch today (frittata) and they all were opposed to blogs in principle, the main complaint being that they don't want to spew their private life all over the internet. Yeah, well there's that. But 1) it depends how private your private life is and 2) it depends how many friends you have who might help you out if they knew what you are going through, if, in fact, you are going through anything.Going through what, exactly?

When I lived in Muskoka (lake country in Ontario) for 16 or so years, we didn't have blogs then, but we had a post office. I could tell my postmistress anything and people would listen and advise me. I remember one time I had a semi-resident squirrel who chewed my siding. He must have had a roughage deficiency. I couldn't stop him and I couldn't get rid of him. Someone heard me telling my sad tale in the post office and offered me a solution. Paint the siding with creosote and the squirrel will stop chewing it. I guess it's like painting their nails with something nasty to stop kids from biting them. Anyway, it worked. I splashed creosote on my denim skirt and it never went away, but the squirrel did.

Really.

That's another word, apparently, that bloggers use a lot; really. Really indicates that you are sincere and honest and telling it like it is, as they say.

Oh,and lots of exclamations marks and question marks make it look as if you are really (!) upset or eager or whatever. I read somewhere that people should be limited in the number of exclamation marks they can use in a lifetime. I forget how many but it was under 2000. In a lifetime. That's when I stopped using exclamation marks. It was hard at first, especially in my diary (as opposed to my blog; I write both every day).

Actually, it has changed my diary. I now use capital letters for entire words and I underline and circle names and phrases and words I want to emphasize. I always used arrows to remind me to do things. Now I fill in the arrow-head. My diary is a mess.

How is my blog?

But sometimes hope gets trampled. Take last night, for example - as far as you can. The Blue Jays lost so I won't be watching the World Series next week, that is, IF they had won last night AND tonight. Too much to hope for, I guess. Remember that line of Emily Dickinson's: "Hope is the thing with feathers" and that, of course, makes me think of the opening of the movie "Forest Gump" with the feather floating and wafting about. (I think the music on the soundtrack is called, simply, the Feather Theme.)

The good news is (here comes Pollyanna) that I will have more time to work at my screenplay, which at present is cocooning in my head and maybe getting ready to break out. Things are starting to happen to it. I remember the first time I became conscious of what goes on during my creative process. I was working on a short play at an interested theatre and suddenly, or so it seemed to me, I got wet behind the eyeballs. Discovery! When the ground seems to move beneath your feet, when the sky opens up, when the light flashes, or, in my case, when I got wet behind the eyeballs, that's when the reason behind the play, behind the idea that I'd had to write that particular play, not only under my surface, but under the surface appearance of things - all that suddenly became apparent. The real wonder was not the recognition of it but the amazement that it was there all along, that it was intended, whether I was aware of it or not.

Call it serendipity. Why me? Why then? Why now? Why at all?

I know. Sometimes.