Books are so last year
Black Marks on Wood Pulp used to be a litblog. Well, almost.
Okay. Not even close. But somewhere along the line, I picked up the classification. I occasionally wrote for Millions. I frequently penned lists and news and other thoughts about books and literature. I had it on my mind at all times, so it was a common topic.
And, for this reason – for these two or three times a week I’d utter something about literature or literacy or libraries or books – I somehow gained the reputation as a book blogger.
Whether it was the book-adorned banners or the literary blog name, I was given litblogger status in some select circles.
The funny thing is, I never was one.
Aside from the What I’ve Been Reading columns, columns that have dwindled down to bare bones, I have never been a consistent fountain of book knowledge. I’m blissfully unaware of the industry, have never met a real author for longer than 15 minutes, have never interviewed anyone who has written a book that I’ve actually read and, no, I don’t even hardly read books anymore.
Oh, I tried. I was going to be a litblogger, focusing on books and stuff like that. But I couldn’t do it.
So for all of you who have me on your “book blogging” lists, over there on your sidebar, or who list me under “books” or “reading” or “litblogs” in your feed reader, I apologize. That is, if you haven’t already completely ditched me, wondering why you subscribed to my feed in the first place.
It’s a misnomer. I’m not fulfilling the category. Instead, move me over to the “personal” section. Or, as 9rules classifies me, Commentary. I write about whatever, and sometimes that means I write about books. But other times, that means I write about babies or Ben Folds or photography or farting.
Just for the record, that is.
If you want to still think I’m a litblogger, go ahead. I won’t mind.
Just don’t tell the book reviewers over at the New York Times.