Wow, Blogher Decompression

So, I show up at Blogher after two days spent with my dear friends from way back in Oakland days, and it’s instantly disorienting. First of all, the prelude to the experience: I’m skipping around the stomping grounds of my misspent youth, the UC Berkeley campus, about which I have so many mixed and mostly unpleasant feelings. My friends, of course, are pure delight and solace. Both the many new ones I made at Blogher (mostly sister MOMos and some others too), and my friends from way back.

Then, the Blogher ‘08 conference itself, in the Westin St. Francis, which had weird feng shui and an architecture I never seemed to figure out despite fancy electronic signage and multi-level mapping of all the meeting rooms. One thousand powerful lady bloggers, of which I am one. The group Opening Keynote was phenomenal, the varied readings and voices unfuckingbelievably good. I only wish the Closing Keynote had been more of the same.

It was daunting, the tangle of relationships and personalities who all seem to know one another and I’m all, who’s that who I should know but don’t? Clearly I don’t read enough blogs! Or I’d know who all the celebs of the women’s blogosphere are.

Blogher was one part being popular girl (because a lot of people know MOMocrats, bless the readers) and having a star like my friend Liz at Everyday Goddess come up and love on me (thank you! this newbie thanks you!!), one part raucous sorority party with said beautful MOMos in person, one part hustlin’ for MOMos (fundraising possibilities?), and one part new girl at junior high with lunch tray scanning the lunch room wondering who to sit with.

Really, it’s kinda shocking how the more I write for MOMocrats and try to jump-start work on the documentary again (fundraising, it’s a bitch, it just never ends, piss moan wallow), the less time I have to read the zillions of blog entries stacked up in my blog reader. This feels wrong. What happened to the leisurely graze that blog reading used to be?

And the less time I have to write on my own blog. WTF??

Anyway, there was this in the NYT about Blogher. That is, before MOMo MoFo Erin Kotecki Vest kicked their sexist asses with this, and the article somehow magically drifted from the “Fashion and Style” section to the “Technology” section of the newspaper. (Now do you see why I worship these women and am glad they let me jog alongside?)

I was amazed that so many women in attendance showed an almost ferocious entrepreneurial zest. It was downright intimidating, the numbers of women who claimed to be making money from their blogs. Or were desirous of doing so. It was also slightly depressing, as it occurred to me that *once again,* I do not appear to have a “mainstream” voice that dramatizes my flaws in a highly entertaining way that’s marketable/relatable, or parent in a way that’s again, relatable (hello, Elimination Communication?), or is remotely of interest to any car manufacturer, childcare product manufacturer, or children’s television/stuffed animal/theme park complex.

Oh, well. I also appear to lack the savvy to stir up traffic to my blog in ways that would make it more marketable by running giveaways, doing Mr. Linky thingies, reviewing popular items, spreading comment love, twittering, or any number of things that help drive traffic.

Yup. What I have is a personal blog–more diary than newsletter, more single sessions on a couch than group therapy. I’m singlehandedly putting the anti-social in social media. Ha.

And I’ve had it too pounded into my head to “represent” my family and culture (by same family) and been pounded over the head to “represent” my culture/ethnicity/gender by mainstream society to want to go full frontal naked blogging.

There it is. Here I am.

I think I almost take comfort in knowing that I don’t have thousands of people reading (she says, trying to not sound sour-grapesy but matter-of-fact). There’s something about writing for me that makes it akin to kneeling at confessional, only there’s a microphone wired to the booth. It’s the one space I have where I can collect my thoughts and stop with the sticky little hands wanting to play with my belly button or stop with being there when the sewage pipe/outdoor sewer line/dishwasher breaks the fuck up. To fix it the fuck up. My blog is where I can just stop for one fucking minute and think a complete thought. Of my own. Beginning to end. And say ‘fuck’ and ‘fucking’ a lot, because I don’t get to swear like a sailor in front of my kid until he’s quite a bit older.

I think I’m that kind of person who might go up on stage but finds it necessary to close my eyes and pretend I’m basically singing in the shower. But who also, in a weird way, almost spoils for a good fight and this election is definitely that. I’d bring my megaphone to 1600 Pennsylvania Ave and play THE most grating song in the world, “You Can Ring My Be-e-e–ell, Ring My Bell, My Bell, Ring It Ring It RIng It, Ahhhhh!” 24-7 if I thought I could irritate Dubya into resigning office or impeaching but not pardoning himself.

So there you have it. I’m a reclusive blaspheming pseudo-Catholic, and a Z-list disco diva all rolled into one.

Seriously, though, I think what it comes down to is this: I barely feel I have enough time to pay attention to my son and husband, my “real-life” friends, and my documentary (which is like children 2, 3, and 4), AND write stuff for MOMocrats all while reveling that these wonderful women are now like my “tribe” (as Glennia calls it) that I’m just hoping beyond all hope I’m doing all of those things at least adequately at maybe 66%, instead of all of those things at 33% proficiency level, which is what I suspect sometimes (most times). So the idea of “professionalizing” my blog by making money out of it makes me feel tired.

This year, could I just maybe finish my doc before I die? And do what I can to get Obama elected?

I can’t even begin to think beyond that. My plate is full. I’m barely hanging on as it is with all ten fingernails. So there it is, no professional “money-making” blog with oodles of giveaways and ads. Just mucho personal expression and occasional Deep Thoughts (but without all the affirmation, ha ha Jack Handy). Sorry, dear readers!