Trepidation

"Hey, Bub!"

"Please don't call me that. You know I don't like being called Bub. My father used to call me that, sometimes. You trying to mess with my head?"

"No, I'm not going Freudian on you. I'm trying to get your attention, Books. . . . Is that better? Is 'Books' okay?"

"Yeah, Books is okay," I answered reluctantly. "I like being called Books. It's a good nickname. What do you want?"

"Just curious. I see you're starting a blog."

"I don't like that word either. It's an ugly word. Call it a journal."

"My, aren't we touchy today. Grouchy, too," Jesse went on, apparently enjoying getting under my skin. He can be like that at times. "So tell me about your journal. What's the point? What does literaplexy mean, anyway? Are you trying to be obscure?"

"Have you ever tried to find an acceptable email address on Yahoo? It's just as bad with domain and weblog names. I tried several dozen possibilities, and they were all already in use. I tried 'No Prisoners' -- as in 'Take no prisoners'--but several people beat me to it. 'What fools,' as in 'What fools these mortals be' is taken. 'Thule' and 'Ultima Thule' are in use. 'Ultimate Thule,' too."

"Did you really consider calling your journal Thule?" he asked, clearly mocking me. "That sounds pretty obscure to me. Arcane at best."

"I considered everything I could think of. I was lucky to come up with 'Literaplexy.'

"Lucky?" Irony dripped from his voice. "I can understand you not wanting to call your site Instapundit666 or Technorati1313. But what does literaplexy mean?"

"Well, it's a combination of literature and apoplexy. It's supposed to suggest something like 'struck dumb by literature.'"

"I guess that describes you okay," Jesse observed. He has a strong sarcastic streak and can be obnoxiously persistent. "So you're going to bore people with Proust, Faulkner, and their ilk?"

"I have a very broad concept of what constitutes Literature," I protested. "It includes everything from Homer and Shakespeare to Mickey Spillane, Carl Barks, and Kilgore Trout. Even weblogs qualify as literature, at least in the broad sense of written communication. I expect to write about all kinds of things--people I know, things in the news, whatever interests me. Part of the idea is not to be limited. I may even record this conversation we're having. Keep that in mind. You may not like the way I depict you."

"And you think people will actually read such stuff? The reason it's so hard to find an unused name for a blog is that there are already millions of people casting their pearls before the masses, sharing their unique perspectives with the world. And the world doesn't even yawn in response. What makes you think you have a chance of anyone even noticing your journal? What do you expect to set you apart from all those huddled masses yearning to be read?"

Jesse can be a bulldog when he gets ahold of an idea. He also can be a priggish, disagreeable, stultifying pain in the rump.

"Well, if I don't give it a shot, I'll never know, now will I?"

"And so you'll waste hours of your time, and join the throngs whose lives have already been ravaged by literature."

"Oh, shut up," I told Jesse, no doubt stunning him with my brilliant repartee. "This is getting way too schizoid. I have to stop talking to myself like this, or I'll never get my first post written."