I started this blog a couple of years ago for the sole purpose of attracting followers. I planned to write about the craft of writing, post some short stories that I had written, and create occasional short prose pieces. I thought it was a brilliant multi-pronged marketing approach that would complement my other promotional efforts. I would write it and the people would come, thousands of them. I guess I thought I was in Iowa, living my own Field of Dreams.

I’m not Ray Kinsella. The ghosts didn’t emerge from a cornfield and the people haven’t come. Well, that’s not quite true. Twenty seven of you follow this blog. I thank you for that. I hope I’m not wasting your time.

Maybe I’m a slow learner. It’s taken me longer than it should to understand that people will either read my work or they won’t, regardless of what I say or don’t say here. That epiphany included the realization that this blog is more than just a collection of posts, more than just a personal journal. It’s a written history of part of my life, a record of who and what I am, at least in part. It’s a footprint, something I will leave behind along with my novels and baseball glove that says I was here. I didn’t discover a cure for cancer, but I did some things. I mattered.

An hour ago I opened my e-mail and read yet another rejection notice for Tears at Sunrise. I thought it would be easier by now. I’ll keep blogging.