"Lou, You've Gotta Read This"

This is who I am . . .

I am the kind of writer who reads with envy. The kind where another writer's sharp passage and pretzel twist of words leave me scratchy, itching to grab a felt tip and scribble my own story, a better one.

I can't leave it alone.

I buy the literary magazines, ones with shiny covers, ones wrapped in glorious artwork. Some that are compact and can be wedged into a purse; others that are large, like a child's library book. Devour is the only word I can think of, yet the poetry and stories are not nearly as satisfying as a soup--I'm too busy thinking about the seasonings that I would've added, or resenting that another cook thought of them first.

I am a jealous writer, which is a fault, and I have rationalized that by insisting that it keeps me driven, keeps me producing, keeps me trying to do better.

As soon as I pull new issues of literary magazines out of the bag, I flip to the back of them and study credentials. I see that Brooke has an MFA from a Prestigious Program. I see that Owen was published by Tin House. I see that Seymour is a fifteen year old wunderkind, living on a burrow farm in New Mexico where he is homeschooled, and although "brilliant story" is his first published piece, he has been nominated for a Pushcart and recently secured an agent.

But here is the little slice of irony I discovered recently: I am NOT jealous while reading blogs. And the reason that that is funny is that the writing in blogs is frequently brilliant, often as good as what is offered by literary journals or appears in the daily columns in a newspaper. It is entertaining and crisp, sometimes accompanied by talented artwork; it propels me to a "feel good, think deep, reach far" sermon, where I am on the edge of my pew, calling for a witness. "Lou," I yell, "You've gotta read this. It's so damn good."

And then, there's this: The accomplishments of my "blogger" friends are things that I celebrate. Maybe it's the personal touch, my feeling that I "know" these people, while the short bios at the ends of literary magazines are as bland as an apartment painted in egg shell and carpeted in beige.

The blogging world is a community of spirit. It is a Church of Origami, where quick hands fold out complicated creations that I "ooohhh" and "ahhhh" over without thinking of myself. It is a space where humility rests under a down blanket, where I can enjoy another's birthday without planning my own party.

This blogging world has been a gift, in more ways than one. Meeting people generous enough to share their lives, their creations, their beliefs, like a group of townfolk tossing stones and vegetables into a cauldron of water.

Creating a succulent, wordy stew and passing around warm simile bread.

Now, that's my kind of meal.