“Sunshine cannot bleach the snow, Nor time unmake what poets know”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

A white winter. A city walloped with feathery flakes. Layers collect and cower on sidewalks and sills. In minds. Inches then feet of blanched and benevolent frost. The hum of laughter and shovels. The song of a season.

The innocence doesn’t last. Time and traffic, days and rays, and it fades. White grows gray. Solid turns slush. Puddles on corners.

But before it goes, memories come. Floating down like the flakes. Memories of faded faces. Of Irish hats and tattered jeans and oil skin coats. Of walks with dogs in winter white.

In the glow of snow, the color comes. The hue of him, who he was. Who was he? He was the man who brought me donuts on Sundays. He was the man who called me Maids. He was the man who walked the dogs through the seasons of his days.

He was the man with the mustache and the mind. He was the man who loved Mom, and us. He was the man in my life.

He was the man who loved snow. I think I remember this about him.

Or maybe it’s just the picture. The one that hangs in our powder room in the home he will never see. This is what we have now. Pictures. Memories. Snow.

My mind dances to today. To little people whom he will not know. Joyful creatures who stumble and tumble in the whiteness out back. With freedom, they frolic and fall. With tiny hands, they build a big man.

A great man. A man faceless with possibility. He will not last forever, this man. Nobody does. But he is here now. Standing tall in the whimsy of whiteness, whistling in the winter wind, watching the world, waiting to melt, wondering what’s next.

In the darkness, he lingers, limbless and loving, a poet made of powder, alone and aware. A man of snowledge.

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Do you enjoy snow and seasons? Does the winter whiteness force you to slow down and remember what was?

Yesterday, I pondered the role of the “perfect” reader. Today, I ask a related, but different question.

What is the best way to build a “perfect” blog readership?

When I first started blogging almost two years ago (so hard to believe), I was eager to build an audience. And quickly. As you might have guessed by now, I am a wee bit Type A, and when it came to this blog, I wanted it to explode. Overnight. Well, ha. That doesn’t happen. Growing a blog takes time. It is an organic and opaque process. There is no magic formula. Truth be told, I did not love learning these things. I am an instant satisfaction kind of creature and utterly lacking in patience. But I did love writing words here. Asking questions. Floating bits personal and philosophical into the odd internet ether. And so I kept at it. Even though I had very few readers and nary a comment for a long time.

Recently, several readers have asked me if I have any advice on building blog readership. And this strikes me as crazy because I am hardly an expert and this blog is far from huge, but I do have some thoughts. Thoughts borne from experience and imagination and, yes, struggle. And so I will share those thoughts with you today. Because I know that many of you reading these words are bloggers. Some of you are rookies like I once was. I imagine many of you are eager beavers like I was and am, and want results. And readers.

Comment away. It is important for you to get off your own blog and leave comments. Everyone says this and it is true. But do not do this randomly. Find blogs you love. Blogs where the writing sings and the topics grab you. Blogs that might attract, and appeal to, a similar audience as your blog. (If you blog about life and love, it isn’t going to help much to leave a comment on a personal finance blog.) Once you find these blogs, lose yourself in them. Swim in the words. And then leave a bit of yourself there. Respond to the writing. Engage with it. Say hello to the blogger. Announce that you are new if you are. Explain how you found your way there (i.e. I found you via the lovely X at blog Y…) And don’t just stop there.

Look through the comments on blogs you like and admire. This is where the true gold is. Why? First of all, these are people who leave comments! And chances are, many of those leaving comments have blogs of their own, potentially wonderful blogs. Visit these bloggers. Whether they are big or small, leave a comment if you like what you see. (Again, authenticity and appropriateness are key. It is often obvious if you are leaving a comment just to bait a reader.) Leave a comment. A thoughtful one reflective of who you are. And then? Visit another commentor’s blog. Rinse and repeat and hope for the best. There’s a good chance these bloggers will come visit you in return and maybe they will love your blog. Maybe you will collect a new reader or two. You never know.

I am no expert. I do not believe in experts. But these are things that I still do (when I have time), things that have worked for me, things I believe in and endorse. There is nothing quite as exciting for a writer than finding lovely new words and lovely new readers. A good place to start? My comment section below. Leave one. A comment. Say something. About this post. About yourself. Tell me if you are new to this blog or new to blogging or have been at this for some time. Sift through the comments on this post and others. Visit some of my readers’ gorgeous blogs. If you like what you see (and I trust you will), leave a comment. Say hello.

Alas. A practical post. But one I wish I had read when I started out. And I will end here by saying thank you. You guys? You are why. Why I love this place. I could never have imagined I would collect such a diverse and amazing troupe of readers.

My perfect readers indeed.

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Do you have any tips on building a blog readership? Any questions or insights about blogging? Do you agree that finding the “right” readers is more important than finding the most readers, that quality indeed trumps quantity? Please leave a comment here and make sure to link to your blog. From among the comments here, I will pick one blogger (or more) to feature on ILI in the coming weeks.

Over my holiday break, I devoured a wonderful debut novel called Perfect Reader by Maggie Pouncey. It is a beautiful story, simply and stunningly told, about a young woman who returns to her childhood home in a college town after the sudden death of her professor/poet father. I recommend it wholeheartedly. At the center of this book loomed an interesting and important (to me) question:

Who is the perfect reader? And what is her role?

The novel explores the role of reader as Understander. Pouncey details the opinion of Professor Dempsey, the protagonist’s late father: “Books [are] not mirrors… but windows. One ought not read to understand one’s own place in the world, or the world in abstract, but to understand the individual experience of another. And even more, to understand the individual force and resonance of words.”

This book, and this theory, made me think. And this in my opinion is what the best books do. They make us think. But I’m not sure whether I agree with the words above. Aren’t books (and blogs) both mirrors and windows? Don’t we read for a host of reasons, some opaque to us — to understand ourselves, to make sense of the world, to glimpse humanity, to immerse ourselves in beautiful language? Don’t we read for all these reasons and more? I think so. I do.

And so. As a book and blog writer, I am left wondering. Who are you my current and future readers? What do you hope to find in my words, in my true bits and fictional worlds? What kinds of stories will keep you flipping and clicking and existentially aroused?

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Do you believe books and blogs are mirrors or doors? Who are you? What do you want as a reader? Why do you come here? What kinds of stories bring you back for more? What kind of questions shake you? Which posts reach out and grab you? When do you comment and why?

**Please leave a comment here today 1/27/11 before 11 p.m. EST for a chance to win your own copy of Perfect Reader. Because I am feeling generous, I will also throw in a signed copy of my own book Life After Yes!**

You are in a good mood. Which is always nice. It’s time to get dressed for that birthday party. You are eight months pregnant and it has become harder to find something to wear. You try on a few options. None quite works. You zero in on a black sweater with a big neck. It looks fine. Maybe even better than fine. And then you see them. Your skinny maternity jeans. The tiny ones. You are brave. You say aloud, I am going to do it. I’m going to try those suckers on.

And they fit! They fit just as they did at the beginning. When there was barely a bump. You pose in front of the mirror, smug and satisfied. Maybe you are all belly. Could very well be.

You arrive at the party. Scatter hellos and hugs. Your youngest girl says words you’ve been wanting her to say. I have to go potty! And she is just two, so young, so advanced, and you feel a stab of pride and lead her away. Off to the potty! You announce. And you place her up on that white perch and she does it. A mini triumph. And then it’s your turn. You sit there, pants down and hostage, as your little creature unlocks the door. Wait! you croon. Not yet!

You jump up. You wipe off. You yank those sexy jeans up. And you hear it.

Rip.

You know. But still you look. Down. At the vast rip right down the crotch. The noteworthy window of white skin. You panic. Your little creature dances and smiles. You look around the pretty powder room. Brainstorm. You feel air on your inner thigh. You look at your sweater, already stretched and stretch it some more. As far down as it will go. It just gets there. Hiding the hole.

You open the door. You walk out. One hand holds that of your little girl and the other pulls that sweater down. You tiptoe to your trusted other. I have a situation. A smile comes. You have no choice. You spend two hours embarrassed. And hoping not to hear that sound again. Praying no one sees.

Then it is dark. Little faces are covered with frosting. The party is over. You say goodbyes and thank yous, still tugging. In the car, you let go, and you see it. The patch of pasty white glowing in the night. You smile. Now you smile. And you decide. That it was not you. Not at all. It was the jeans. They have been worn and washed too many times. The fabric was weathered and weak and you moved too fast. It was simply the perfect storm for shame. Right.

You sit there in silence, still smiling, wondering if anyone saw. A story, you say. This is a story. And I will tell it. Because it is funny and I am human.

And so. Even though you are embarrassed, so embarrassed, you do. First you change into your loyal leggings. Then you tell it. Word by word. Rip by rip. Smiling the whole time.

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Have your pants ever split? Have you ever experienced a similarly embarrassing moment? Please tell your stories and make me feel better. If you happened to catch a glimpse of my inner thigh last Saturday, I sincerely apologize. It won’t happen again

“The heart is the only broken instrument that works.”

T. E. Kalem

I think I broke a heart once. I can’t be sure. I never asked.

But in my own heart, my today heart, pulsing and pacing, running and racing, I know. I know I hurt someone.

I think I had my heart broken once. I can’t be sure. I never asked.

But in my own heart, my today heart, pulsing and pacing, running and racing, I know. I know someone hurt me.

The hegemony of pain. The ubiquity of cracks. The mystery of history.

Music – bittersweet and beautiful – rises from broken instruments. The symphony of humanity.

We have all broken. We have all been broken.

This is my song.

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Have you broken a heart or had your heart broken? Do you think that heartache and pain are part and parcel of existence? Has someone who has not experienced breaking truly lived?