. . . Which should not be confused with Bloggable Mom, a different concept entirely.
A bloggable mom is a gal with children whose life is worthy of the kind of online pics and self-narrated captions that other people, for all sorts of reasons, “follow.” Blogs have followers, I have only learned very recently, and ardent followers of blogs, (which I am not because I’m still so new to this blog world), know by instinct what is bloggable, blogworthy.
My son Dalton, I’d say, seems to have an instinct for what is bloggable. He’s the one who came up with the name for this blog, as a matter of fact, and subsequently feels part owner of its intellectual property, partly responsibile for its content. Lately, he’s telling me a little too often for me to be comfortable, that the thing we just did (or saw or heard or burped) was a full-on “7” on the bloggable scale of 1-10, (10 being CNN-worthy). Or it’s just a paltry “4” on the bloggable scale. Hardly worth having lived in the first place.
This is Scary with a capital “S” — also for Scream and Strange — and is worth returning to in a separate post. For now, I’ll just say that this tendency to live with an imagined audience always in your peripherals, was the #1 reason I was one of the planet’s last blogging hold-outs. It took 10 years from the first time someone suggested, “You should really have a blog,” to the day I launched this one. Kicking, though politely. And Screaming, but with a lower case “s”.
(Ha. Fancy that. Particularly after my last post that was sooooo long, so “into it”, a friend and reader told me he’d have to sue me for damages. He had to scroll so much he got reader’s, not writer’s cramp, and swears following my blog has given him an irreversible case of carpal tunnel syndrome. I told him I was so terribly, truly sorry that I’m no lite blogger. I do have a weigh with words. )
So, these 8-on-the-bloggable-scale topics Dalton is suggesting?
“Why not Cow Cat?” he asks me today at our kitchen island. Cow Cat is this vagrant, overstuffed , black and white cartoon of a Holstein feline, a blimped out Cat in the Hat sans hat, that skulks across our low stone wall every afternoon at 4:50, reaches the same spot, stops, sits, stares. Lifts his tail to the air like a sailor lifts a finger checking for wind. Then Cow Cat sniffs. Turns. And skulks away just as he came. “Cow Cat, Mom. He’s bloggable.”
I would surely hope not.
“Then what about the trash, Mom?” Luc asks, dropping his apple core in the compost bin, his cracker wrapper in the colored plastic paper bin, and his crushed-and-firmly-lidded water bottle in yet another bin. Which would be the crushed-and-firmly- lidded-water- bottle bin. “Swiss trash is serious,” he says. “It’s bloggable, dontcha think?”
Serious, yes. But I would never put you through that.
Randall yells from the living room. “How about one on plugs, honey?”
“Plugs? What do you m–?”
“You know? About how I’ve had to cut the plug heads off of all our electrical appliances every time we’ve moved countries? Then splice the wires? Rig all those new heads? For the different plugs in every country? A post, honey. It’d be great. About all these chords, you know, that keep getting shorter and shorter?”
“You’re kidding, right?” I ask, leaning around the corner.
Then I see what he’s up to: cross-legged on the living room floor, paring knife in hand, six lamps —two short, four tall — lined up against the wall, their wires a tangle of what looks like your little brother’s bangs when you trimmed them with your round-tipped Crayola scissors. Frayed ends everywhere.
“See?” he says, holding up a white triple-pronged plug into which he’s trying to feed the wires of a shorter-than-normal chord. “There should be a blog for this. And some mathematical equation for the correlation between the number of countries you’ve lived in and the number of inches your lamp is from the wall.”
He’s got something, my handyman. And it’s now I see that our table lamps have turned to floor lamps, and our floor lamps to wall lamps, shoved up to one socket like skinny boys at a junior high school dance clustered as if glued next to the light switch in the gym so, while they’re not out there dancing, they can get their jollies by switching the lights on and off.
(Those guys were in your junior high school, too?)
Electrifyingly bloggable or not, I’m not going to invite you all the way to this blog just for minutia. No plugs and sockets, nuts and bolts from me, friends. Oh, no. I am a Gesamtkunstwerk kind of blogger, if you hadn’t noticed. No sippy cup posts from me, I’m afraid. If you come, plan on having to guzzle.
Unless, of course, there’s a fig tree in sight.
‘Cause figs? You bet. At least a 6 for bloggability.
Still, still. Bloggable Mom is not what this post is about.
It is about Blog Global Mom. About Blogging about Global Mom. About my forthcoming book, to get to the point, which has, as publication looms closer and closer, finally found its official (and not just “working”) title: Global Mom.
Global Mom, A Memoir.
Global Mom, A Memoir: 8 Countries.
This is the book I have been writing in fits and starts on every possible surface and at all hours underneath all the living that has crammed these last many months ramping up to this, our 16th big move.
No, actually, it’s the book I was writing with a fountain pen on the graph paper of an orange Schülerblock thirty-five years ago when I was first a student in Austria. And with a Bic in a spiral notebook twenty-four years ago when Randall and I lived in Hong Kong. Then on a big awkward desk top Apple computer twenty years ago when we first arrived in Norway. Then on my oversized lap top fifteen years ago when we moved to France. And on a smaller lap top years later in Germany. And on my iPad years later in Singagpore.
And now, on a sleekish MacBookPro (or, when sitting in a waiting room, on my iPhone) in Switzerland.
I guess I was perhaps always writing this book. Now, finally and thankfully, I’m not going to be the only one who reads it. (Luc, at least, has promised he will.)
All of this segues us back to Blog Global Mom, because the whole reason I launched this blog in the first place, if you recall, was to introduce you to the book (then called 21st Century Mother, a title my publisher and I have concluded was not in harmony with the scope and color of my narrative), as well as to get daily practice honing concepts, exploring narrative styles, building chapters, and above all, getting your expert readerly feedback as to What works? What rings true? What reaches you, my readers’, nerves, minds, guts, hearts?
Blogging about Global Mom helps me to know what to graft into — or take out of — my material before November 1, when the full submission is due and then the furious work of editing gets underway.
All leading up to a top-of-2013 publication.
Which sentence, as I reread it on my screen, makes me, oooooh, it just makes me want to blog my heart out.
Next post, I’ll tell about my publisher and how I found him. I will also share with you, once a week for the next several weeks to come, trailers of Global Mom, A Memoir.
Just one last thing: “Blog Global Mom” should not be confused with Bloggobble Mom.
Or with Blogglowball Mom.
Both of which are something else. Entirely.
© Melissa Dalton-Bradford and melissadaltonbradford.wordpress.com, 2012. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. . . which means, as long you’re not selling it, you’re welcome to share, but please remember to give me a link and mention my name.