I told how we managed to save money by getting two gallons of milk out of one gallon.

I showed you how *I* learned to take off lids with one hand.

I’ve shown you tools that have helped me along the way, ways I’ve learned to cope with difficulty and things you may never have thought about (because I know I never did).

I have cried because of the overwhelming emotions I deal with. The grief. The pain. The joy. The revelry.

I have shared. Over-shared.

I never said this was the RIGHT way. This is it. DO IT THIS WAY AND EVERYTHING WILL BE BETTER. I want to kick my own ass for even typing that.

But this is my place. My little corner of the world. Welcome to Anissa’s Internet. I peed in the corners. This is mine. I say what I want. It doesn’t always sit well with others. That’s ok. I have no problem with people telling me they don’t think something’s right.

I do have problems with assholes.

This is my spot to be myself.

As goofy as I am. Using my words. Shining through the dark.

I’m really not sorry if you don’t like me. Feel free to get the hell out.

Now, I won’t lie and tell you that I don’t appreciate when a post resonates with a reader in a way that makes you feel the need to take time out of your busy life and leave a comment.

I do.

It thrills me to the little tips of my soul.

But I never write with that in mind.

There are places I write where I will use the tricks of the trade to encourage commenting, but I get asked to do that.  It makes it part of my job.

This is my place. Never my job.

I used to be worried if my comments seemed down.

Not so much anymore.

I have better things to worry about.

So do you.

So I’m really not spazzed out when another blogger gets hundreds of comments and I only get one.

First off, I could never respond to everyone and I would feel terribly guilty.

Secondly, I only want you to comment if a post really matters to you.

C) That one comment matters just as much as the ninety-ninth. Maybe more.

If you’re not getting the comments on your blog you’d like, please don’t stress.

Remember why you stsarted writing in the first place.

I hope it wasn’t to get comments.

Granted, I was at Bloggy Boot Camp for a different reason than a lot of the attendees, but I did get the slightest feeling of the WIZENED OLD LADY in the bunch.

The old lady who always has a kleenex in her purse. And a piece of candy.

Maybe I should feel experienced.

I felt old.

I mentally wrote a sponsorship deck for an up coming branded event while they were teaching people how to get readers.  (Secret: better than any trick with your blog is spend time being a better writer and stop worrying how many readers you have)

This was the first conference of any kind for a lot of people and they might not have realized what I was doing with my funny answers to Amy’s panel questions.  But more than getting her laughs, I was getting her retweets.

I did my part on behalf of the MOM’S ADVISORY BOARD and spoke genuinely about being part of it. Being the mom of a 13yo with Invisalign trays and it being more responsibility than just getting free trays for my son.

I got to meet Tiffany Romero, the woman behind BBC, and was relieved that she wasn’t confused or slightly scared of my humor.

I usually don’t call out anyone by name but I have to give props to Maddie.  Homeslice drove in and brought me cupcakes!!!  The best cupcakes EVER. Like if unicorns and angels had weird inter-species orgy these cupcakes would be the lovechild.

So, besides feeling ridiculously old and sugar-high, it was a great opportunity to hear the stories of other people and keep “blogging new” by experiencing their experiences.

Maybe THAT’S the answer to the question about how to get readers: first be an “experiencer” so you have something worth reading.

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At Babble Voices I wrote about not being a “bad mom”

Exercise. Rehab. Writing. Blogs. Friends. Relatives.

The biggest piece. The one all the others have to fit around.

Family.

It feels like the side change shape. Get longer. Are shortened.

A spot that once arched out now curves in.

The transformations are subtle.

Their changes.

Mine.

Physical.

Emotional.

The pieces always shifting.

Somehow always fitting.