First off, I ranted one morning about the good ole boys of the literary South and many people who never show up to my blog showed up -- suddenly -- to read it. (I wish they showed up when, day after day, I don't rant. But what can you do?)
Secondly, I realized the size of the audience for that piece and wrote a little follow up. And then, thirdly, Benjamin Whitmer wrote a very thoughtful response to my rant and I responded to that response.
But then ... I got a call from my old friend Michael Gills this week, and, it turns out, editors have approached him about writing a more formal rebuttal to my rant. He wanted to know if I was up for it -- maybe a back and forth. Well, of course, I am. So, fourthly, I'll be doing said back-and-forth with Gills in an upcoming issue of a lit mag.
Honestly, I read the post now and I don't know why I was so pissed off on that given morning. I'd obviously fueled it with some coffee and let fly. Whatever it was, it struck people. So maybe a full airing would do us all some good?
I don't know. Maybe not.
The real problem is that, on the phone, I confessed to Gills -- for the first time to anyone -- the title of the rant I have sitting in the drafts file of my blogger-tank. And he burst out laughing.
I said something like, "I don't know. I think it''ll make my good ole boys rant look like a sweet little love note passed between sixth graders in homeroom. Do you think I should post this one? People will get fiery."
He said yes. Post it. Do it.
Still, I'm a little scared.