I can't be myself here in this small town

I grew up in a small town in North Florida, and though that small town ain't so small anymore, it's still small enough for my surname to be recognized. Or at least so I fear, in my self-involved, self-aggrandizing manner. Hence my complete and total anonymity on the web. Well, almost complete and total. There are a select few who know the details of my identity, like Love Bites and Duck and a couple others. But I generally guard my name fiercely, for fear that the revelation of who I am will stifle my ability to write expressively, honestly, and with all those delightful, nasty bits. Because the minute folks know who I am, the instant people from my past start bobbing their heads in to take a gander at my deep, dark, dirties, well, I'll either stop writing or stop writing authentically. And that defeats the whole purpose of a blog. At least in my world.

Which is exactly what Love Bites and I discussed over drinks on Friday. Because here's where my world gets really, really small. My reviewee today: Sayre Smiles? I kinda know her brother.

I assume that Sayre found her way here through normal channels. Saw a review of a friend's blog or stumbled on us somehow and got hooked and gathered up the gumption to submit her site for a good, long reaming. So it is perhaps the perversion of the world to drop her site in my lap, out of all the reviewers at Ask.

I debated whether I should let that little tidbit out, whether it was opening myself up to intrusion and revelation that I'm just not ready for, will likely never be ready for. But I felt I owed it to posterity to come clean, since this will likely color my review. Or maybe I'm just a glutton for punishment, 'cause here it comes over the horizon. Watch. Someone's gonna find me and I'm gonna be embarrassed to all hell and have to close up shop.

Ah, shit.

Anyway. My paranoia aside, on to the review.

I typically read an entire blog when I review, but I couldn't with this one. Hello, prolific. Sayre has been blogging consistently since 2006. The template is blah, blah, blah, and for someone who's been blogging as long as Sayre has, I expect better. It's a standard Blogger template, and not one of their good ones, if such a thing exists. There's absolutely no personality, no individuality. Sayre, check out our FAQ for some links to resources for better templates. And don't tell me you don't know how 'cause surely someone can help you snazz the place up a bit.

I don't like the extra info that goes along with the blogroll -- it's overload. Sayre, put your blogroll on another page if you're going to do that; or, really, just put your blogroll on another page regardless. And since you have been blogging for so long, include months and years in your archives, and make them a drop down list. I had to keep clicking "Older Posts," which is a drag. There's no other navigation. Otherwise, good job on the lack of clutter. But we could use an About page, something to let us know up front who you are, who the people in your life are, and what you're blogging for.

Sayre is an entirely competent writer, good even. Everything is in its place, there's no stumbling or hiccups or overwriting or any of that. She has touching posts that are nicely written but long-ish, and mature, kind, and thoughtful posts. But there are too many memes and quizzes and Fun Monday hoo-ha crap.

Some posts make me think Sayre could write about anything, when maybe she shouldn't. Not that she doesn't write about roofing exceedingly well, but, I mean, who cares? These types of posts are good for family and friends to get updated, and a good record of what's going on in your life, but for the rest of the world, the rest of your audience? It's just white noise. Decently written white noise, but noise nonetheless.

There are lots of posts on the kid, which, ok, I don't get into because I'm a heartless non-breeder. And there are lots of pics that don't mean that much to me (although they did clue me into the fact that I know Matt) and lots of we did this and that and such and so. The reason for this is clear -- Sayre isn't writing for us. She's writing for herself and for her family and for posterity. And so the rest of us are on our own. We'll either deal with the log of her life because of the good stuff, or we'll go away. And I sense she doesn't much mind either way.

Her parents read her blog, and maybe that explains the very innocuous nature of it. It's extremely family-friendly, which I'm kind of not. Well, not online anyway. But there are nice things to be found here, and Sayre is a neat lady with interesting hobbies and a side gig that I've always, always wanted to try.

Bottom line, I like Sayre. Could be because I know so much of what she lives day-to-day because I live it, too -- I breathe the same air. But it's also because she is a dedicated writer, talented if a bit muffled. I get the feeling that, in spite of the acres and acres of posts, there's more to know. And I'd like to know these things. I'd like Sayre to get raw, to get creative, to show us more than the daily litany of activities and observances. There's lots of commentary but not a lot of exposition.

Sayre obviously blogs because she loves it, because she can't help it, and, for me, that is the best reason to blog. Because readers can tell when it's a chore, when a writer is struggling to get words up on the screen. But I can't shake the feeling that this dogged determination to write is hampered by who you let in. And I wonder what you might tell us, what you might show us, if we didn't know your details, if the people in your every day life didn't have a window on your world. It's a great irony, but by letting us know your identity perhaps you've stopped us from knowing you.





I open it up to the peanut gallery -- who do you let read your blog, and does it color your writing?

It's crap and I hate it.

There are some things about womanhood that are better left unsaid. And manhood, too, for that matter. I mean, who wants to talk about smegma? Not me. But what I mean is, some of us hold onto misconceptions that paint us as the fairer sex, the less stinky sex. And that, to me, is just fine. Because I like that air of mystery. It covers up the smell.

But Fiona wants us to know that Girls Poop Too. Which, you know, obviously, but do we have to talk about it? I know, I've come over all delicate southern belle on y'all. Sometimes I can't help it. If she'd written a site called Girls Squirt Too, I'd have been all over it. But this is just... distasteful.

And so is the design. It's pink on brown. Those colors can work together, but not hot pink and doo-doo brown, like a cherry on a turd. I mean, I guess it illustrates her point, but aesthetically who would want to?

There are ads of the blinking variety, which just ratchets up the shit factor. Fiona, move your archives and categories to the top of the sidebar (nice work rolling them up, though), and get rid of the ads and the groups you've joined and the log in/register crap (or at least move that to the bottom). Good job on doing an About page, but you damn sure don't give us a lot to go on, do you? Hell, we don't even get your name there, or your age, or anything else of interest other than the story of how you came up with your blog title. I will say that the last paragraph of your About page was probably the most truthful and interesting of your blog.

I read through the entire blog, as I tend to do with all my reviews, and all I could glean is that Fiona is bitter and judgmental. Which I know is kind of pot-calling-kettle-blackish considering I'm judging her blog, but still. It's all just so angry. For 22 (which, by the way, I had to read for a thousand years before I discovered), she's got an awful lot of venom stored up and ready to spew. Dear heart, what happened? Has someone pissed in your Cheerios every day of your life?

Fiona writes about celebrities (yawn) and her political views (which I couldn't disagree with more, surprise surprise) and makeup and people who annoy her. Her coworkers are stupid and annoying, and Obama supporters are stupid and retarded and annoying, and her friends are stupid and boring and annoying, and everything is just crap and she hates it.

And she gets like one comment per post. Wonder why.

I liked this post; I cracked a smile. And I do agree with her on Nancy Grace. The woman is a menace. And the makeup suggestions were helpful because I am a girly girl. But otherwise? There just wasn't much here for me.

Girls Poop Too is exactly the kind of blog I can't get into: snarky without substance. We don't learn anything true or deep or appealing about Fiona. There's nothing here that makes me want to know her. It's all surface criticism and shit that bugs or amuses her. And for a journalism major, the writing is just not engrossing. Oh, she's got some zingers. And she mentions bukkake, which I kind of have to like. But the writing rambles and is inelegant and there's no attention paid to craft or execution or storytelling.

Fiona, I see where you want to go with this. I read a couple of the blogs you link to. But you're just not quite hitting it yet. There's too much trying to be funny and bitchy and not enough humanity or personality. I don't know you. And with what you're putting out there for us to read, why would I want to? If you're going to be a nasty piece of work, at least do it with style, put some effort into polishing up your writing. And if you're more than a bitchy little shit, then show us.

I could give you a flaming finger just because your attitude and your politics really chap my ass, but because I think I can see where this could go if you clean up your design, bring in some better colors, relieve the clutter, and polish up your writing, and because I'm feeling magnanimous and "hopeful" (sneer all you want, oh disaffected youth), you get:









Young Shirley: I hate the world. I hate everythin'. It's all garbage. It's last. It's crap and I hate it.
Old Shirley (V.O.): But I didn't really hate anything. The only thing I hated was me.
-- Shirley Valentine

Dear Diary, my teen-angst bullshit now has a body count*

Ah, I've missed it here. The holidays were grand, but, oh, to be back among you, you vile, loathsome, evil little cockroaches. You complete me.

I wish I could say the same for my reviewee today. My welcome back, in that sense, leaves much to be desired. Because instead of starting 2009 with a blog to praise, an author to drape with laurels, and a new hope for the merits of bloggers worldwide, I get... well... this.

Sigh.

Brace yourselves. There's bad poetry. And prose poetry. With no attempt at using an apostrophe. Or capital letters. Or a dictionary. Or any sense.

Ov. Ov? Seriously? Fucker. No wait, it gets worse: gud. And wud. And ud. I just... I can't even get mad. Because it just depresses me so much. I know this is English as a second language and I'm dealing with a generation who learned to communicate in text pidgin, but Christ on a crutch, is this is what the world is coming to? To paraphrase LB's daughter, I despair for her generation. And I despair for us if we're getting another round of emo Indian kids' blogs to review because, oh, the agony.

I suspect someone listens to a lot of Evanescence or maybe Lacuna Coil. And she calls herself a Nincompoop. And a loser. I mean, this is angst to the nth degree. It's dark (but kind of dark light, like gray, or maybe a middling purple, like it wants to be dark but doesn't know how), and silly, and juvenile, and pitiful, and woe is me, and melodrama, and OMG toadily (I'm fucking serious, y'all -- she wrote "toadily").

And what's worse is I can't understand a damn thing that's going on. There's no story. There's no revelatory information, no exposition, no nothing. I don't know who this girl is, aside from my assumption that she's young and depressed. I don't know what she likes, what she does, who her friends are, what she wants. It's just really bad poetry and really pathetic whining and really annoying mutilation of the English language. All on a black background with a huge ass header image that takes up too much space and meaningless doohickeys in the sidebar and it's just all a waste of time.

I hate to say that. I do. Because I suspect this girl just wants to let it all out, and I was an angsty teen, too, once, back when God was a boy and I had my own personal Jesus. But for shit's sake do it somewhere else, and don't subject the rest of the world to it. Password protect that drivel, put it in your bedside journal, or just write it on notebook paper and then wad it up and throw it away.

It's obvious she just posts when she's got some new angsty poetry to share, or when someone has broken her heart, or when the weight of it all (although what "all" is I haven't a clue because I can't understand every third word) gets to be too much, because there's just not a lot here. And that's probably a good thing.

This is not a blog. It's a regurgitation of emotion. And someone should clean that shit up before the rest of us get it on our shoes.







And here's a bandage for your boo-boos. Cheer the hell up.






*Heathers