On Disappearing Bloggers

Much like this macabre garden decoration from the local elementary school, I feel quite separated from reading lately.  Last week, I didn't read a single page. It's not reviewing I've lost interest in. This month I've talked elsewhere about handbags, kitchen items, food, music and furniture. I've spoken about politics, social issues, popular television and my neighborhood. Shutting up isn't what happened. I even panned the most recent Bob Dylan album. If you know anything about reviewing music you know that Bob Dylan fans are super extra fervent and crazy. We will argue the most minute points until all semblance of sanity is lost. Saint Bob produces works of brilliance not fit for the likes of humanity and anything suggested to the contrary produces shaking tears of rage. It's kind of like, our thing. So this isn't about fear of reader response. 

I did quit GoodReads, and I did so with no regret at all. I don't want to be one of the reviewers who quits reading. (BTDT in the last massive wave of Be Nice and Sock Puppets for Everyone.) On the other hand, the climate right now sucks. It's not fun to talk about books and therefore it's not fun to buy them. I'm spending less. I'm accepting fewer ARCs. My book consumption is in free fall. I hesitate to review other items here very often because most people who read this blog (as opposed to half a dozen other blogs o'me) read it to talk about books. My narrow interest in film or music is something I can slip in here or there, not dump on you constantly. I get that. You get that. In each blog, it's place. Or something. We're losing focus.

First, there was The Book Of Shame. Then there was The Shameful Blog followed quickly by the Sicko Authors and the Lying Authors and the Authors of Malice Without Glee. The intent was to kill all reviews that weren't happy little Saint Bob fangirl moments of unsupported devotion. The side effect is I don't want to read anybody's effing book. It's silencing the 5 star reviews as much as it is the 1 star reviews. The Good Authors, the Careful Authors, the Hardworking Responsible Authors all get shafted while the Sockpuppets create frenzies of yarn across the internet. I need to figure out how to reattach my arms and do some work on the TBR.

Just to get it out of my system, the new Dylan album is going to go down as one of his worst. Tempest is self indulgent (even for Saint Bob) and tedious. It's Muddy Waters reduced to the lowest common denominator and speechified upon. It's not good. It's 13 minutes about the sinking of the fictionalized Titanic complete with love for Leo. (Yes, I get the whole allegorical nature of the piece. It's still a murky and numbing slog.) There are some truly wonderful lyrics hidden in the depths but you have to kill yourself to find them and I'm not willing to die for Saint Bob. I just don't think he'd come save me.