Oscar Wilde claimed to have put all his genius into his life, leaving only his talent for his work. Many a great conversationalist has done much the same thing. Most people (though not all!) find it easier to talk than to write, and some, like the now-forgotten Desmond MacCarthy, talk so well that they never manage to write anything memorable.
For the professional writer, blogging is an intermediate state. It’s writing, but writing of a peculiarly ephemeral kind, the postmodern equivalent of penning a thrice-weekly newspaper column, and those who do it too assiduously run the risk of dribbling away the stuff books are made of. Hilaire Belloc once managed to finesse a similar problem by publishing a collection of more than usually ephemeral essays called On Nothing and Kindred Subjects, but the fact that On Nothing is now as forgotten as Desmond MacCarthy suggests that he was kidding himself.
I’ve been blogging more or less regularly since 2003, during which time I’ve also published more than six hundred columns in The Wall Street Journal and written three books, two opera libretti, and a play. I’m not sure what this means, if anything, but at the very least it suggests that I find blogging stimulating. Usually it is, but there are times when all my talent (I have no genius) goes into my work, leaving nothing left over for the blog.
Having suspected from the outset that this might happen, I resolved to keep the ball rolling by posting a pointed quotation each day. Two thousand almanac entries later, I find that the choosing of this daily quotation is one of the self-imposed duties that I enjoy most. Between the almanac, the Thursday theater guide, the teasers for my Wall Street Journal columns, and the art-related videos that I now post twice weekly, I like to think that “About Last Night” is worth visiting even when I have nothing else to say other than that I have nothing else to say.
I’m not telling you anything that you don’t already know when I confess that I haven’t had all that much to say in recent months, a fact that is amply explained by what’s been happening to me during that time. Between the premieres of my second opera and first play, the continuing illness of my mother, and my endless theater-related travels, I’ve been finding it increasingly difficult to blog.
This, too, shall pass, and until it does, I mean to continue posting the usual quotations and videos, keeping you abreast of my various print-media appearances and professional activities, and updating the right-hand column at reasonably frequent intervals. I’ll also continue to tweet my random thoughts on the passing scene, and I’ll write should the spirit move me, as it doubtless will from time to time.
What I won’t do is bore you by making constant excuses for not blogging more often. You can henceforth take it for granted that I wish I were doing so–and that I’ll be back on the case as soon as possible.
Archives for November 21, 2011
TT: Just because
Chuck Jones’ “Double or Mutton,” written by Michael Maltese:
TT: Almanac
“The moment ‘talk’ is put into print you recognize that it is not what it was when you heard it; you perceive that an immense something has disappeared from it. That is its soul. You have nothing but a dead carcass left on your hands. Color, play of feature, the varying modulations of voice, the laugh, the smile, the informing inflections, everything that gave that body warmth, grace, friendliness, and charm, and commended it to your affection, or at least to your tolerance, is gone, and nothing is left, but a pallid, stiff and repulsive cadaver.”
Mark Twain (quoted in Edward Bok, The Americanization of Edward Bok)