A blog about something

Is there a baby boomer alive who doesn’t remember Jerry Seinfeld’s and George Costanza’s oddball pitch for a television sitcom, “a show about nothing”?



Well, I'm aiming to write “a blog about something.”

My friend Anne and I -- both of us displaced print journalists -- have been brainstorming blogs over lunch since February. She recently helped her mother, Robin Hathaway, a mystery writer in New York, launch a blog called “Robdoneit.” Before that, Anne and I wrote blogs at the Loudoun Times-Mirror. Anne is convinced that if writers want to stay in the game, they have to blog. They have to be “out there.”

I've been curious but reluctant. How would I set up a blog that wasn't affiliated with an existing newspaper or Web site? Anne deftly directed me to resources. How would I, someone without an art background, design a layout? She suggested I look for blogs I liked and emulate their features.

One of my favorites is David Loeb’s blog, "Musings of a Pediatric Oncologist," at doctordavidsblog.blogspot.com. Dr. Loeb, my son David’s doctor, generously shared with me some of the unexpected pleasures and benefits of blogging. He patiently answered questions about such things as “search engine optimization.”

But content proved to be the bugaboo. I had to write about something! During March I stewed over topics. Should the theme be broad so I’d have lots to say? Should it be narrowly focused to distinguish it from the zillions of blogs out there? I tried several ideas on for size, but none fit.

My friend Megan suggested I look at dooce.com, an enormously popular blog by Heather B. Armstrong, a Web designer and “recovering Mormon.” She blogs about, well, mom stuff. I thought, “I can do that.”

Meanwhile, I resisted launching a public blog because I was quite happy with my private blog on the CarePages Web site. There I could keep writing about our ongoing, but diminishing, cancer challenges as my family tentatively moved forward after a year of upheaval. I could tell my stories from a recovering cancer mom's point of view.

But suddenly David took editorial control of our CarePage, and my role was curtailed. I could almost feel myself gasping for air, my lifeline cut off. The time had come to launch a new blog, whether or not I was ready. It was do or die.

So I’m “out there,” a little duck in an immense puddle. This is a fledgling effort; I don't know how it will evolve. I suspect it will undergo several iterations before I hit on something that works. Or not. It could be a big flop.

For now I'll keep writing the sorts of essays I was writing on the CarePage. I'll write about those things -- the everyday and the monumental -- that happen to most of us as we get older, but I'll try to bring a new perspective. As I try to make sense of the changes in my life, maybe I can help you make sense of yours.

Perhaps this blog will amount to nothing. But for now it's something.

I am Susan Boyle

OK, we all know I’m not really Susan Boyle, the frowsy chanteuse who blew away millions of viewers this past week, first on “Britain’s Got Talent,” and then via YouTube’s instant replays.

First of all, I’m 55, not 47. I live in the United States, not Scotland, in a collection of sprawling suburbs ringing Washington, D.C. I have been kissed, and I’m married. As for my singing, let’s just say it’s not one of my stronger attributes.

But strip away the superficialities and I am Susan Boyle, the tentative, would-be artist trying to hone a talent in the safety of her living room, far from potential critics and disapproving voices.

In the broader scheme of things, Boyle represents all of us who toil in the arts and dream of being discovered, doesn’t she? Don’t we all long for that mystical moment when stunned audiences leap joyfully to their feet as we finally dare to open our mouths, put brush to canvas or pen to paper, click on the camera or jeté onto the stage? How many of us imagine ourselves as emerging swans after a lifetime as ugly ducklings, indistinguishable from the masses?

Simon Cowell asked Boyle about her dream. “Why hasn’t it worked out so far, Susan?”

“I haven’t been getting the chance before,” she replied. “But here’s hoping it will change.”

Getting the chance, hoping for change. It’s what every novice artist seeks. My chances kept eluding me as I raised three sons, all now in their 20s. Life has a way of slipping by, especially for women, when the care and feeding of others is allowed to block the creative process.

The time has come for me to take a chance on blogging. After three decades of modest writing success -- favorable comments from editors, an award here and there -- I’m striving for something bigger, even as my favorite print venues crash and burn. This blog is a new chance, where I can play with my ideas and see what happens.

“I dreamed a dream of time gone by,” Boyle sang, echoing Fantine's frustrations in “Les Misérables.” Electricity surged through that auditorium and ignited a response no one could foresee (sorry, Simon, not even you). Nothing could extinguish it, least of all the disconnect between that radiant voice and the awkward singer. Now Susan Boyle can dream a dream of times to come.

I’d venture to say artists around the globe are telling themselves, “That could be me.” I know I am.