I meant to write a little something on stats when my followers passed the 2000 mark and certainly when the number of posts exceeded 2000. I meant to, but I forgot. There’s been a lot of stuff going on lately. So much so that by Tuesday of this week, I thought it was Friday. Busy, busy, busy. My best month ever was November 2012 with a total of 12,067 views. Between hurricane Sandy and the presidential election, the Internet was a very exciting place. The most hits I’ve ever gotten on a single post was The FBI can’t do a simple Google search? on which I got 10,143 hits. I wrote it during the commercial break.
The posts in second through fifth place in my best-ever list are an old Internet joke and three re-blogs.
I have personally answered nearly all 20,000+ comments. If I didn’t answer yours, it was because I missed it (it happens occasionally) or I ran out of levels to continue the conversation. I am a compulsive comment answerer.
What’s the Secret?
After a lot of careful consideration, the secret to success — such as it is — is to write a lot of stuff people want to read. And publish good photographs. With a few notable exceptions, hits on my pictures exceed hits on my writing.
Size matters. No matter what anyone says, if you post more good stuff, whether you write it yourself, reblog it, have guest bloggers or share the spotlight other writers and/or artists, publishing more gets more hits. There’s a direct correlation between the number of posts and bigger hit counts.
What does it all mean?
I don’t know. I stopped obsessing over statistics. These days, I take a look when I think of it. I like to see how my best work does in “the ratings.” Sometimes stuff I like best does well and I’m pleased.
If a good post (in my opinion) gets overlooked, I scheduled it to for republication. I re-post photos, rework writing. I rerun favorite posts, but I will republish anything. I don’t reblog because I don’t like the way it looks and most people don’t like having to jump link to read the rest of the story.
None of us needs to apologize or explain why we republish our own work. If NBC can do it, so can Serendipity. And so can you.
With more than 2000 published posts, it’s too much material to not reuse at least some of it. There are, of course, posts I’d just as soon forget I ever wrote in the first place — a subject for another day.
Often, an under-appreciated post finds its audience the second or third time around. If you’re prolific, you can be sure not all your readers read every post the first time it was published. And if they did? Well I watch reruns of NCIS often enough to do dialogue with them. Reruns make the world go round.
The most important thing to come out of my blogging experience?
Friends. So many of you have become my friends. You are loyal, caring and I love you. You have been kind, supportive, encouraging … all the things that friends are supposed to be. I cannot begin to thank you. So … thank you. All of you. You make my world a better place every single day.
Main Street. Hyannis on Cape Cod. Mid-October. One sidewalk café, 2 perspectives.
Empty of people and clean, the café says something different when the waiter clears away the remnants of visitors.
Always, it’s beautiful, a fine place to sit, relax, talk. Enjoy perfect autumn weather.
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- Putting Things In Perspective From Someone Else’s Perspective… | Steve Says…
Sometimes, we act on impulse: it could be something as small as ordering that special dessert on the menu, maybe asking out that cute boy or girl, or as large quitting your job and selling everything you own to become a shepherd in New Zealand. What’s the most crazy, outrageously impulsive thing you’ve ever done? If you’ve never succumbed to temptation, dream a little. If you gave yourself permission to go a little crazy, what would you do?
Between good marriages one and three, there was unspeakably awful marriage number two. To say that it seemed like a good idea at the time is not entirely true. I knew from the get-go it was a bad idea. Not only did I think it was, but everyone who knew me thought it was terrible idea, from my mother to my new friends in Israel , to my old friends back in the states. No one said “Follow your heart!” because it was clear whatever I was following, it wasn’t my heart or my brain, but some part rather lower down and significantly less rational.
So why did I marry someone so blatantly unsuitable and mismatched?
- He spoke English. Never underestimate the power of communication when you are in a foreign land and have no one to talk to
- I was on the rebound from a divorce
- We were using lots of drugs
- Insecurity, loneliness and being a stranger in a strange land.
All the aforementioned combined. Voila. A marriage easily entered into but not so easily escaped. I should have known when his mother took me aside and said “You know, Tony isn’t really stupid. He just seems stupid.” His mother?
He had an evil temper. He didn’t read books. He had no visible means of support. He was courting me while his first wife was dying of cancer (red light flashing, siren going off, why don’t I notice?). The levels of wrongness were too many to count.
So, how did it work out?
How do you think?
I went crazy and I paid. I paid big, long and hard. There are crazy risks that are fun. Go ahead and buy the lens you want. Take an extra ride on the roller coaster. Learn to sky dive.
Just make sure, before you take a mad plunge, the price you may pay for your wild decision isn’t beyond your means. If your heart and mind are screaming “NO, NO DON’T DO IT” whilst everyone in your life for whom you have an iota of respect agrees with that assessment … don’t do it. Admit you are wrong.
Because in the end, the real reason I went ahead with a marriage I knew was absolutely wrong? I was embarrassed to admit I’d made a mistake.
Ye olde sin of pride. It’ll nail your ass to the wall every time.
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When I was a young mommy working full-time and raising my son, I thought I should make my own clothing. It would save a lot of money. My mom made all my clothing when I was a child. She continued throughout her life to make her own outfits and they were gorgeous and classy.
Now that I was grown up with a job and a toddler, she occasionally — if I begged and pleaded — made something for me. Things I wanted but couldn’t find in the store, or afford if I found them.
I waxed nostalgic about the days when Mom made my clothes. I didn’t appreciate how beautifully everything fit. How special the outfits were until I was much older. When I was a kid, I wanted was to look like everyone else. Kids are dumb that way.
I spent my entire childhood watching my mother sew things on her magic Singer. How hard could it be? I picked up a second-hand sewing machine. Took a sewing class. Bought a few patterns. Acquired fabric, zippers, buttons, threads — all those little widgets and doodads sewing requires.
There were a lot more than I imagined possible. And I made some spiffy new outfits. I was thrilled at how much clothing I could make for a pittance, especially compared to buying it at Macy’s.
People stared at my clothing. Admiration, I figured. They must be impressed. I was right.
Long pause. “You made that yourself?”
“How did you know?”
“Just a lucky guess.”
It turns out that you have to set both sleeves the same way so one isn’t puffy and the other flat. There’s pattern matching too. Oh, and buttons, which are supposed to line up. Zippers are not supposed to stick out and be all bunchy. Also, they are supposed to close so it’s level when zipped.
Details, details. Hems? One length all around. Those pesky collars? Hated collars. They never came out right.
Even is a big word in sewing. Both sides of a garment should be as close to exactly the same as possible. Unless you are oddly shaped or making a costume for a party and intend to look weird.
I took a another course, this time in tailoring. It didn’t go as well as sewing had. You had to use padding and stuff that stiffens fabric. I was never patient enough to get it right.
I gave up making my own clothing and returned to holding my little plastic card and yelling “CHARGE!” as I went into the mall. The sewing machine grew dusty. It is still gathering dust in my dining room.
It’s all closed now. But not wasted. It’s a lovely spare table on which to display dolls. I collect dolls. And no, I do not make their clothing.
I do many things myself. I get up and out of bed by myself. I wash dishes. Write, edit, take pictures, process photos. Pass out treats to dogs. Manage our so-to-speak finances.
Take more pictures. Water plants. Maintain this blog.
That’s pretty good, isn’t it? All by myself I mean?
Oh, and I fix computers, install software and if you need anyone to explain how to use something? I’m your gal. Does anyone need an older, but barely used sewing machine?
Cee’s Odd Ball Photo Challenge - Week 3
This is my all-time favorite oddball — funny — picture. All my dogs are comedians, but this time, Bishop won the prize for funniest.
The big guy wanted to make sure he got into that shot. I could have as easily omitted him from the picture by simply moving the camera a little bit, but he was hilarious, sticking his head in there. He reminded me of Mel Brooks playing the waiter at the Last Supper in “History of the World Part I.”
Bishop has been taking clown lessons!