If We Could Just Talk for A Moment…

It’s probably uncouth to mention, but I’m missing some people.

It’s troubling, really.  Seventy people, 70 readers in one day. 

I worry about them. 

Where have they gone? 

Is it because I once suggested that monkeys could be trained to light the cigarettes of the quadriplegic?

Is it because I’ve admitted to telling a begging man, “Touch me again, and I’ll scream”?

Maybe it was my concern that the neighborhood kids, loitering in the alley, were up to no good and were, feasibly, organizing a Bachmann for President collective.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve written too much about Mary lately.  This, I can understand, as too little Mary is almost as painful as too much Mary.

I’ll say no more about that.

It’s funny, you know.  When I started writing, I told myself it was because I wanted to get better at it.  I felt I had things to say, and a different way of saying them.

Slowly, however, it became something else.  I stayed up late, visiting other blogs.  I developed friendships, real friendships, with people who e-mailed me, people that I e-mailed back.  I bought books from fellow authors, attended readings.

I even obtained two stalkers: one who spouted capitalized nonsense, the other who purported to “know” things about me.

Me!  What, of interest, could someone know about me?

But 70 readers. 

I’ve scanned the papers for clues.  “Blog Followers Disappear – May Have Discovered Life Beyond Keyboard”. 

And so I’ll break with how I normally operate, and ask a question:  Is this typical?

What do you think?