It’s a year ago this week since I started to write here.

Someone had sent me a link to Caterina’s site, and I learned there were people out there that I would want to have a cup of coffee with. This woman’s voice was like that of my favorite email friends, and here she was publishing for the hell of it. Then Paul Ford of Ftrain became my web-writing hero, and I forced him to become real-life friends with me on the strength of being a Brooklyn neighbor. I started to carry a notebook to jot my own scraps of books and subway conversations. Late in the office one night, I set up a Blogger account and sent a trial letter to myself.

Blogger took the friction out of writing: there was no pressure to produce paper-quality material in this disposable medium. No one expected a Harper’s essay, because no one expected anything. I liked having yet another outlet to chat in and I found these daily snippets suited my attention span. Matthew Arnold said the Irish excelled at lyric poetry because we lacked the concentration for the novel form.

My shy experiment was aimed mostly at the people who were already email friends, though I didn’t tell them it was here for a month or two. Then more people stopped by, and I got to know some who linked or wrote. Some I even met in three dimensions. I got back in touch with old friends who live far away, and I sparked a few to start their own sites. This site has been a home of sorts now that I have no fixed address, and the daily ramblings have mounted up into a personal history. I feel well-rewarded for a small effort.

So thank you for visiting. I’m glad you’re here.

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