For most of my working life I was a writer, of one sort or another. As a writer, I spent a lot of time thinking about the people who would be reading what I wrote. That is, I thought about my intended audience. Since I wrote technical documentation for computer network software, I had no actual audience. Nobody ever reads that stuff; except, perhaps, other tech writers.
I realize when you publish a blog on the Internet, readers are a theoretical possibility. I have a couple-three regular readers, and I'm OK with that. My blogger buddies are clearly fine, erudite people with discriminating taste but rather odd interests. I don't write for them, though. I just write. They can read it, or not, as they wish. No obligation. No pressure.
So it was totally okay that it's taken me a month to figure out how to explain how my paternal grandfather came to be Harry Spevak. It's taken me more than a month, because I haven't got it figured out yet.
Then Tin Man sent me a birthday card, and mentioned that he'd been reading my new blog. Both of the posts I've written so far. He didn't say that last part. He didn't have to.
A real reader. Somebody I actually know.
No pressure.
