The unsettling mystery of Google search terms

From etsy.

Like most small-time bloggers, I spend a great deal of time poring over the page where you can see how many hits you get and where they come from. It's a good place to become very humble, very quickly, especially once you tell Blogger to stop counting your own clicks. Ouch. It can also be a little alarming and confusing.

On this magical page, I can see what people searched for to find my blog on Google. Most of the time, it makes sense and I get why the person went on to visit me (yay!). Sometimes, though, I'm mystified because it doesn't make much sense in relation to what they searched for, but, whatever. If something caught their eye, hurray. I'm just happy for the readership.

These are my favorites, most of which make me a little worried about what kind of statement I'm making about myself on the Internet-Which-Never-Forgets:

Losing bladder control in public (Has not happened to me, yet. Watch this space for updates.)

I'm content with losing (Well, only a little, but I hope I helped whoever else wanted to feel content with losing.)

No one noticed I left, Why I left Facebook (Facebook causes a lot of angst for such an ugly site, as this search term has come up over 135 times since I wrote that post.)

Drawn morbid pictures (I'm guessing they landed here)

Cheetah Zubaz (apparently someone does know what these are)

Alice Cooper sex dream (it was NOT a sex dream, just for the record)

Sarah Hunt panties porn (my god, let's hope they left disappointed)

cincysarah@blogspot.some (3 times) (no doubt this is the result of me typing in my url wrong somewhere, as I am wont to do) (I have no idea why I can't get a bigger audience)

Veggie tales Jesus (I can only imagine the disappointment when they realized there were no talking tomatoes and a severe shortage of messiahs here)

My kid is better than your kid (This makes me wonder if they were looking for others who firmly believe they are raising a small Ghandi or Albert Einstein, or trying to find a mother who actually thinks that way, to yell at. I don't go in for that jazz.)

Erma Bombeck, Erma Bombeck Workshop (Yes, I miss it, too. Please talk to me about it at great length so that we may never fully return to real life.)

Writing vs. Marketing

Good reminder from this etsy artist.

 "Don't expect applause," a post on Seth Godin's blog today, was exactly what I needed to hear this morning:

"But when you expect applause, when you do your work in order (and because of) applause, you have sold yourself short."

I'm still basking in the glow from the Erma conference over the weekend, because it was such a nice, supportive place to be, but now I'm back to regular life and trying to figure out how to apply what I've learned, at least in fits and starts. I am sure I haven't figured out everything I've learned yet.

One thing that I heard about the conference before I went, and which rang true, is that it was a place to go to learn to be a better writer, as opposed to a better marketer. I mean, it's definitely good to learn a bit about the latter if you'd like to make a living as a writer, but if you start to spin off and become inauthentic because you're writing with a goal of getting praise and attention, that's a good way to ruin the soup.

Lots of the presenters and speakers talked about what I think of as the blurry line between the how and why of writing. The "how" is obvious, I think (at least in theory). You can easily find endless tips and tricks about how to best put one word after another until something that seems like writing appears on the page. That's a thing you can hone. But the "why," and how the "how" is related to the "why"? Ho, boy, that's troubled waters.

Because of course we want to entertain, especially those of us doing human interest/humor writing. There's a lesson, or a punchline, and we want to not only convey that - we're also hoping to resonate in a way that entertains. So, how does one decide where to aim that arrow? I tend to keep in mind the people that already seem to find me funny well, at least amusing. I figure if nothing else, hopefully my warped friends will find this thing I'm writing about amusing, and if they do, maybe a few more people will, too. And, if not, well, at least I made my friends laugh, and I had fun with the process. This is especially true of essays, where I work hard to craft those as best I can.

Even when I don't "hear the applause" - even when it feels like I'm delivering jokes into an empty cave, I know I wouldn't ever stop this.

Writing is the thing I do. The thing I am compelled to do. Not everyone is going to agree that I have even a granule of talent, but I like to sing in the shower, too, and Clive Davis is yet to show up. It doesn't mean my children won't continue to be delighted when I belt out Roger Miller songs while soaping up my hair. OK, well, there will come a day when they will probably cower in humiliation because I breathe air near them, but I digress.

Humans are artists by nature (even you, trust me), and we're better people when we can express that art, in whatever form it takes.

So, I have to agree with Seth, and it was a needed reminder. I don't want to write for the applause, though I greatly appreciate it when it comes. That's a pretty freeing guideline.

The email that lives in my brain

May you never have occasion to mail this card. But just in case...

I'm a "writer" (please indulge me), so I'm usually sure I'm either about to pen a life-changing bestseller or that I'm a total fraud and everyone talks about it behind my back. "I just can't bring myself to tell her. It's almost embarrassing at this point."

Some days, it's hard to write anything anywhere, especially in an instance where someone is actually paying me, because of the thundering doubt clattering around in my uninspired psyche. On the worst days, I'm relatively sure everyone is getting together to craft an email like this:

Dear "Cincy Sarah" (if that's your real name),

Today, I had the displeasure of coming across your "blog" (if that's what you want to call it). Well, let me just say that I want my money back. This waste of space is part of What Is Wrong with America. YOU are What Is Wrong with America. 

Specifically, I found your description of this thing you did to your children reprehensible. If I could figure out how to spell Cinsinnaty Cinnamonity Cincinaty, I would report you to the proper authorities. Of course, your "city" (if that's what you call that dump) is probably a little too preoccupied with frozen turkeys falling from the sky and murder, so it would likely be a lost cause. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that Someone Like You would come from Somewhere Like that. 

Your cheese-coney-horfing children are doomed no matter what I do, anyway.

Still. The least you could do is keep your nonsense inside, tucked away next to those obscene daydreams about Axl Rose and Bon Jovi (newsflash: that is weird and you are old). Instead, here you are, prattling on about nonsense no one cares about, clogging up my Google searches with inane "commentary" about any number of ideas, all of which have already been discussed more thoroughly and more eloquently 1,100 times.

Do us all a favor and just quit already. We hate you. All of us. 

Sincerely,

The Internet

Yeah, it's pretty much like that sometimes. It's only a little heartening to read about successful, beloved writers describe the shadowy doubt that still creeps in on them from time to time. For one thing, this tells me that even at the upper echelon of this career ladder, dread and insecurity still creep in (I suppose that's an inevitability no matter what you do, which is just more depressing). For another, I'd be more likely to find $6 million lying in the street in front of my house than to become a truly successful author, so it just means that if I keep writing, I'll get all the fun of writer's block, self-loathing, and panicked stress but without the fame and fortune. Whee?

I think this whole mess is why I'm most excited about the Erma Bombeck Writer's Workshop next week. I know other writers who suffer from this disease, the one that compels you write even though it's a gut-wrenching, terrifying process at least 40% of the time, and I find it so energizing and reassuring to be around other writers who get it. Not that I'm not about to puke at the mere thought of meeting a bunch of strangers. But I'm going to do it. I'm going to focus on all my Brene Brown mantras, probably make a spectacle of myself in Dayton, miss my children for 3 days, and hopefully, come back wiser and more diseased than ever.

The writing disease, you perv, although hey, what happens in Dayton, stays in Dayton (because nobody wants to hear about you sitting in construction on 75).

By the way, totally not fishing here. I truly appreciate that you read my babble, and I have an incredibly supportive group of friends and family. Partly I'm sharing because I know I'm not alone and I like putting something out into the universe that might help another writer feel less alone when they wind up shipwrecked on the Island of Temporary Suckage.