Not even my nearest and dearest read this blog (except for you, dear reader).
It could be what I say or the way I say it.
It could be that I haven't done enough to attract readers.
It could be that no one reads blogs.
In Toronto, where I'm based until November 9, I have one reading, six days before I leave. Despite having a car, I did not try to arrange readings in Guelph, London, Hamilton, etc., or anyplace else on the way to/from Toronto.
Neither the Word on the Street nor the International Festival of Authors, both within the next two months, include me. I didn't propose my name, and nobody did it for me.
I published a new book in April. I haven't seen or heard anything about it since. I myself was absorbed in another writing project and didn't give this book enough attention.
None of this matters, it really doesn't, except that yesterday I felt a little discouraged when I happened to glance at the readership stats for this blog. And I was reading of the Austin Clarke memoir, 'Membering, and his own moaning along these lines years ago.
I take it all as a healthy reminder that the world is just me and my writing, which is as it must be.
Now, let's have a bath.