What is a blog?

What Is a Blog?

By Paul Roberts

Blog.

Blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog.

That’s three months of blogs right there, if I’m going to write one each week, and I’m already approaching semantic satiation. You know, that thing that happens when you say a word so often it starts to feel like it doesn’t mean anything.

And I’m not even sure I know what a blog, or blog post is supposed to be. Does it have to be non-fiction, or are you allowed to write fiction in a blog? Help me, Mighty Interweb!

 https://yourwriterplatform.com/blogging-fiction-writers/

“The reason why non-fiction writers benefit so much by blogging is that they can demonstrate their authority. By sharing their valuable ideas in a blog, they’re attracting the people who care about those insights and can have a waiting audience when a book is published.

For a fiction writer, the process is different.

Any blogging you do before you have a published story will have a different focus: entertainment and engagement. The impact may be more difficult to measure, but you are still laying the foundation for your most important marketing element–your stories.

Non-fiction authors are trying to solve a problem, fiction authors are trying to fulfill a desire. Both are compelling reasons for readers to want to connect.  The best way to have people interested and loyal to your storytelling is for them to be wowed by some stories that you wrote. Your blog is just a tool to facilitate that fascination.”

Oh, I see.

Thank you, Mighty Interweb.                                                                                                                                      

From time to time, I’ll be sharing some of my fiction on these pages, accompanied by some clever non-fiction designed to facilitate your fascination with my fiction. Like the short story “Santa” that you can read here, which I hope gets you into the right frame of mind for the holidays. 

"Santa?"

By Paul Roberts

“Santa?” Tom said it with the upward lilt of a question, but the young boy standing in front of him apparently took it as a statement.

“You don’t look like Santa. Where’s your beard?”

Tom’s brain seemed to be shifting gears slowly, as he tried to awaken from the cat nap he had been enjoying in the rocking chair just inside the furniture store Christmas display. He felt the three day stubble on his face with his hand as his eyes focused on the forlorn looking young boy standing in front of him. His hazy, waking mind haphazardly filled in the rapid fire questions that demanded his attention, until moments later, he had a full picture of what was taking place before him.

It was Sunday afternoon, and it had not been a lazy one. In fact, from the time he had left work on Friday afternoon, nearly all of his waking time had been spent in one of his least favorite, most exhausting activities: holiday shopping. Somewhere in the mall his wife was changing her mind yet again about the best gift for one of the grandkids, nieces or nephews; or perhaps she was ruminating over the Christmas day menu one last time as she looked at the three cent difference in price per pound between sweet potatoes and yams. Regardless of what she was up to, he had found this rocking chair, next to a fake tree and beside a faux stone fireplace, both lit by twinkling extra-long life LED bulbs (as seen on TV!). 

No salesmen approached as sat in the rocker; his two armloads of store-wrapped packages gently eased to the ground as he lowered himself onto the chair. Heavy eyelids closed, a sigh eased from deep in his chest and he slept.

How long? Long enough to dream that an elf was poking him in the stomach with a pudgy finger, telling him he would be in trouble with Mrs. Claus if he didn’t finish all the toys on time, and to dream that it had to be a mistake, he couldn’t be Santa, he was just Tom Benedict, worn out husband, father, and holiday shopper.

The dream abruptly ended, he realized, when the boy now standing in front of him had somehow mistaken him for Santa, poked him in the belly, and asked “Are you Santa Claus?” Now, here he sat in his rocker, surrounded by presents and holiday trappings, wearing a red and white stocking cap, and trying to figure out how to answer this “Tiny Tim” standing in front of him.

“You don’t look like Santa. Where’s your beard?”

“The missus got tired of the beard, “ he said. Too late, he realized he should have just answered “I’m not Santa,” closed his eyes, and been done with the encounter. His answers kept inviting more questions.

“I wanna get my mom a present, but she can’t give me any money to buy her one. Will you make sure she gets something from me?”

Later, Tom decided he had just been too sleepy to think straight. What else could explain the smile on his face as he watched the boy walking away, carrying two neatly wrapped presents, originally intended for Tom’s wife. Oh well. It certainly made his load a little lighter.