Shit it ain’t

I have a day job.

I’m a blogger.

I don’t get paid to write.

I write because the alternative would be to share my ideas with every single person I meet on the bus, on the street, in the elevator, at the beauty salon…

(Excuse me, does your son play with the Arabs in the wadi?)

…and to eventually be put into solitary confinement or executed.

The Times of Israel knows this and it’s done the world a great service by giving me, and many other bloggers, a pulpit. With our blogs up and running, we’re able to tip-toe quietly, without disturbing the general public, blending in like everyone else — even if our latest blog post just went viral and our phone keeps buzzing while we try to stand calmly at the bus stop, resisting the urge to look just one more time at who said what and how many “likes” our post has racked up.

But a true blogger’s hell is the one with no buzzing at all. Dead silence.

There is a limit to how much we can self-promote (said no blogger ever) without our writing actually having any merit of its own.

Chances are, more than a few of our posts are worthwhile.

Some bloggers experience epiphanies and want to share them with others.

Others want to put a name to their face.

Some want us to laugh with them.

And yet others want us to laugh at them.

Many bloggers use their professional or personal experiences to share ideas that are right on the ball.

Some bloggers make us cry.

And then there are those who make us wish there was a magic spell to stop others from silencing us.

There are no rules.

But I think I’m speaking for many of my fellow bloggers when I say that I write because I like to reach out to others, and I like it even more when they reach back.

(Not you, Chabad. Please stop reaching out to me).

I often believe that I will never, ever have another idea for a post, and then it hits me: I am not the only one in this world who is divorced without a Sukkah.

We bloggers make great personal sacrifices to do what we do. I’ve shared intimate details of my life quite candidly, I’ve openly dissed Israeli Playboy, and I’ve spoken about my successes at finding love… and about my failures.

I have come to accept that people assume my life is an open book and that I’m fair game for all of your interpretations.

Many of my loyal readers and fellow bloggers have come to embrace the wonderful, unedited me.

If you think it’s shit, don’t read it.