Alex Laybourne's Blog, page 87

Review: A Stir of Echoes

A Stir of Echoes by Richard Matheson

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I started this novel hoping for something great, and was sad to say I was ultimately disappointed. Maybe in part is due the age of the book and the different sense of community now as compared to today. However, this point aside, I found the story to by flimsy.

Having just reacently read I am Legend, I was expecting a strong story at least, but what was offered in A stir of Echoes, while being entertaining in parts, was poor in comparison.

I won't give away any spoilers with regards the actual events of the book, but the ending I found to be abrupt and offering no real conclusions. I mean there were a few questions answered, but there were just as many questions either raised by the ending or just left unanswered by it.

I didn't really feel that much of a connection with the characters, and at times lost the plot of who was who. The mid section of the novel was certainly the most entertaining and at one point promised to delivery something very good. It just seemed to lose steam and get drawn to a unsatisfactory conclusion.

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The Good, The Bad and The Ugly: Part 2

Following on from my post yesterday where I talked about what character is more fun for a writer to work on; the Hero of the Villain, I want to now ask which character is more important to a story.

It was clear from the multiple reactions I received, that writing a villain is the more enjoyable. I felt so, and feel oddly pleased that other writer feel the same way.

This new questions is more like one of those questions you used to be asked in English lessons at school. There is no right or wrong answer, it is all subjective. That is in part, what I want to ask it. I am intrigued by learning more about the writer psyche.

Which character do you think is more important to the story. The Hero / Heroine or the Villain.

There are clear pro's and con's for each side of the answer. Of course a Hero is important because they drive the story. They are the good guys, the represent not jus the hero(ine) of the tale being told, but are the embodiment of good overcoming evil. The good guys are always supposed to win, right?

But then again, who good is a strong hero if he / she doesn't have a tough as nails villain to come up against.  Villains are supposed to be the touch guy, whether they believe they are justified in their cause of not, the fact is that the Villain puts up a fight.

I guess the type of novel you are writing should also be taken into consideration, as in a romantic novel, the build up of the hero and heroine is more important. The villain is more inconsequential as the tale is about the romance. While in a horror or an adventure book, where the villain itself may not necessarily be something 100% human, there is an added importance to fully develop this character.

Often, the hero is the main character, even if they and the villain are equally described and used, the hero is always the show stealer. Not because Good conquers Evil, but because the book is often written more from the perspective of the good. Maybe there is a need for novels to look more at the villains perspective, to show them in their daily life, their relationships, or rather, as you would have it, their lack of relationships with those around them. Show the hero as the outsider, maybe not coming to save the day, but to ruin it. Suddenly, when viewed from this perspective, the Villain is the more central character.

Ultimately, one cannot survive in a novel with the other. Undoubtedly this is why most novels end with the demise of the villain (or hero) or soon thereafter.  However, I am of the personal belief that no matter how well-developed and how incredibly well written your hero is, he is ultimately nothing (again this is will vary from genre to genre) without a villain of some sorts to come up against. Whether it is a demon, a serial killer, a "dark passenger" or just some hidden parts of their own character. That fact alone, makes the villain the more important of the two characters.

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

There is no battle that is waged over a wider range of fields than that between the hero and the villain. From horror to humor, romance to thrillers, they come in many guises but they are always there.

We have real heroes, anti-heroes, tragic heroes and heroes as a result of circumstance. Villains with purpose, villains with a history connecting to the hero, world domination seeking super-villains and those villains that are also a rather tragic victims of their circumstances.  Obviously, there are a great many more types of both that I could list, but I fear this post would never be finished. Plus, listing the options that are available to you when choosing both characters for your novel is not what this post is about. (although, note to self… it could be a good post for next week.)

No, the question I want to raise is about writing these two characters. The question itself is simple. Who do you prefer to write?

I can certainly see the charm in writing the Hero, I mean he is the champion. The fan favorite. Your hero is the character that is responsible for the happy ending, or at least for putting up the good fight. He stands up for what is right, he defends the weak and will risk his own lives for the other characters. Maybe not in a literal sense, but certain in a figurative sense of the phrase. Ok, heroes can be flawed, they can have a hidden darkside, but still, when compared to the villain, they are the without doubt, the good guy.

But come on, writing the villain is just great fun.

Personally, I think writing a villain is a more liberating thing for a writer, because with villains, the gloves can come off.

Take even the most flawed hero in literary history, and you will see that the writer didn't go too far. You can't. (You could argue that the anti-hero is a hero pushed too far, but even then there are limits, because there has to be something stopping the anti-hero becoming a villain.) Whereas the villain, he doesn't have to be bound by a moral code. He can do what he wants when he wants.  He's the bad guy after all. The reader is supposed to hate him. To want to see him fail.

Ok, I admit, there is a level, and boundary for both character, but for the villain that boundary is the plot of the novel itself. His actions cannot be too extreme for the type of novel he is in. Other than that, world domination is his oyster.

 What do you think? Is is more fun to write a hero or a villain?

ROW80: Seconds Out for Round Two

Well, another round is upon us. I didn't post my goals earlier in the week. It wasn't because I didn't have them ironed out, but rather because my Monday was crazy and I didn't get much time to sit down and write them out. So here we go with a double dose of ROW fever.

My Goals:

1) Finish the final touch ups on Trials and Tribulations. I over half way through now and hope to finish it in the next couple of weeks.

2) Continue my current hot streak with regards reading.

3) Visit at least three blogs a day and leave a comment

4) Plan out and hopefully start my new novel. It is 75% ready, I just need to apply a few finishing touches.

5) Work out a decent promotions technique that breaks away from the dangerous ledge of 'promospaming' on Twitter.

6) Work out a short list of goals … only kidding. I have plans for something large… massive in fact. It will be a big undertaking. It is writing related but that is as much as I can reveal at the moment.

7) Think about exercising. Seriously, thinking about it is about as good as it gets at the moment. Although, with my birthday at the end of next month, I have some big hopes for at least a small selection of free weights or a cross trainer.

8) (This one is just because I don't like odd numbers) again, seriously, I have this thing. I want to actually get to know a few of the people who have befriended me on Facebook and Twitter. It would be good for me, and also shows that I do truly appreciate it, and don't just think of people as sales targets.

The Check-in

Well, it has only been two days, but I am going good and have a really good feeling. It took me a while to get into the swing of the corrections with my novel, but now I am flying through and actually enjoying it. All that is left then is a grammar check, and then it is off to the editor. One final read through from my Beta reader and I am gold.

I haven't done much written planning for my next novel, but it has been bouncing around my head non-stop and I am have a pretty good idea of the way it is going to go. It isn't such an out-and-out horror novel as the Highway series, and instead focuses on the breakdown of the human character. Needless to say I have high hopes.

With regards my super secret project, I haven't done much than fantasize a little… no no no nothing like that. I've just been trying to sort out a plan of attack.

I have just started reading A Stir of Echoes, and after I am Legend, I am expecting a very good read.

 

How are things going with you. I know it's only been two days, but I am sure some things have gone better than planned and others fallen by the wayside. Or what about those forgotten goals. Those goals you meant to add last time, and somehow forgot again this time around.

Subconscious Writing: The Power of the Mind

How many times have you been writing, and I mean really in the zone, only to read back through your work and find a sentence that you just don't remember writing. You can't even remember ever thinking it. It doesn't fit the plot, not really, and just seems completely out-of-place.

You leave it in however, and carry on because editing comes later. Then suddenly, as the story follows that natural course of evolution that all plots go through, something happens. A new avenue opens up and suddenly, without ever really knowing it, that line from earlier suddenly makes sense. More than that, it ties things together. It acts as the perfect pre-cursor for what was to come.

This has happened to me several times over the years. I am prone to zoning out while I write. I just kind of get lost in my mind and before I know it I have written half a dozen pages, or more. Most recently I was writing something, and a line of dialogue slipped its way onto the page. It was nothing, but twenty thousand words later my plot took a turn which I had not planned, and all of a sudden this one line became a key moment in the book.

What I am getting it, I guess, is that maybe this is what makes writers writers. I am part of an email group where a rather heated argument is now raging because someone said that anybody can write a great book. I understand what they were trying to say, but their choice of words was worse than poor. I think it takes a certain person to be a writer. It goes to say that there is a difference between being a writer, and being someone who wrote a book.

Could it be that the mind of a writer works constantly, and I mean on a subconscious level. Drawing conclusions and creating intricate relationships between characters that don't ever come to the surface. Unless we slip of into these zones whereby our mind takes complete control and the true intricacies of our work can be revealed.

Has anything like this ever happened to you?

Review: Dracula

Dracula by Bram Stoker

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

What an amazing book. It is clear to see why this is a classic. I had read it before but I was just a kid and couldn't appreciate the complexity and attention to detail that went into it. The simple fact along that it is not your standard narrative tale, but rather told through a colleciton of diary extracts, newspaper clippings and ships logs put together to spin a yarn that has sparked more stories and movies than anything I can think of.

I will admit that the ending seemed rather aburpt to me. I had expected a larger finish, however having read the book, I see it fits and was their plan all along.

The only problem I had with the book was that at times the lanuague used for the speech of some of the characters, namely the wolf keeper at the zoo, made for very hard reading. However, I understand why it was done, and got through it without too much hassle. It was more a case of read it slowly that re-read it ten times.

The pacing of the book was good, there were moments of terror and moments of calm. It feels strange to be reviewing a book such as Dracula, but hey, it's just my two-pennies worth.

On occaison the over friendly nature of the characters with each other got a little sickly sweet, however it needs to be remembered that his book is old, and written in a time when manners and good feelings towards those in your life were not just expected but a part of society,

On occasion I thought the dying of Lucy was a little drawn out, the multiple blood transfusions, but looking back I see why. Vampires are linked by blood, one sires andother and so one, but the true call always links back up the chain. In sharing their blood with Lucy, the group of friends are linked in a pact to fight the vampire.

I am so pleased to have finally read and apppreciated this novel, the background of Dracula is explained. and ok, I knew the background from movies and pop culture, but to read the reasons from the text that founded the myth always seems to make something clearer.

I would recommend this novel to anybody, and to those who claim the book is a tale of homosexuality (in the form of vampires) battled heterosexuality (in the form of Van Helsing and his friends) I say you are merely looking for a soap box to preach your pointless and outdated views on life.

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Six Sentence Sunday

I did this for the fist time last Sunday, and it was great. A nice and easy post for the one of in the week that even I enjoy doing nothing on.

The premise of this post is simple. Six sentences (or six lines) from one of my pieces of writing.

Today's sample once again comes from my debut horror novel Highway to Hell

"Lucifer fell. By your own way of calculating the passage of time, he fell for millennia, before landing on a desolate piece of rock at the bottom of the universe, the edge of all existence. So fierce was the wrath that God unfurled on him after his defeat. It was there, on a small rock fighting for its survival in the truest possible sense, that Lucifer began to create his realm. Four of his followers survived the descent and impact. Their bodies were broken and disfigured, twisted into hideous beings with a thirst for revenge that consumed them completely. Lucifer saw his chance and so fueled their rage with crazy promises and desires, the same way Gollum was consumed by the ring."

Thanks for reading.

We All Have Secrets

Wendy Williams stood in the kitchen waiting for the evening's vegetables to finish steaming when she heard the news report on the radio cut right into the middle of a song.

"We're sorry to break from the programming, but an emergency news report has been received. We will return to out normal schedule following this announcement. Thank you for listening to 103.4 Strand FM, your local radio station"

This prerecorded broadcast didn't really catch Wendy's attention as much as it was intended to. However, the unprepared voice of the news reader Normal Anderson did. "The police have just confirmed the discovery of another body in Normandy Park. While no official details of the case have been released at this time, the police, in conjunction with the local government authority have implemented a 8pm curfew and a no entry zone around Normandy Park. Both take immediate effect and anybody found to be on the streets after this time will be taken into custody for further questioning. I repeat, an 8pm curfew has been enforced across the whole town, and nobody is to enter the Normandy area. Anybody found breaking these protocols will be arrested and taken to the Lenderton Police Station for further questioning.  That concludes this announcement and we will now return to the Album Top 500 with your host Michael Dulles."  The radio went silent for a few moments before the Bon Jovi came back to the stage, in the same place he had been previously.

Wendy head the steamer announce its completion and so she dished up the dinner and walked through into the dining room where her family waited for her. Her husband Bill and their eldest daughter Joanne were in the middle of what appeared to be a rather entertaining conversation when Wendy arrived.  She didn't ask what it was about. Those two had a close relationship and their jokes were often lost on Wendy.

"I just heard on the radio that they found another body in the park." Wendy said as she sat down. "I hope that Nick is alright." She added unnecessarily.

Nick was their youngest son. He was 17 and worked the evening shift at the local supermarket.

"Another one. That makes it what… nine now?"  Bill answered her. "They'd better catch that guy quick."  He spoke before taking a bite of his steak. "That reminds me, I'm going to be late home tomorrow. I have a couple of things that I need to take care of at the office."  He smiled at his wife as he chewed.

"Ok, but be home by eight, because there's a curfew in place."  Wendy warned. She said very little else because she knew that Bill was lying to her.

Over the last few months he had suddenly started having to work late. He had become grumpy and always seemed to be on edge. He was drinking coffee, something he never drank before, and in large quantities. Wendy had thought nothing of it until three weeks before when she called him one evening at the office to ask if he could pick up some cat biscuits on the way home. Nobody answered, and when she tried calling Jeff, Bill's best friend and co-worker, having suspected they had left to grab a beer. She was surprised to learn Bill had hadn't been in the office all week.

They rest of the evening passed in the same fashion as always. The pair sat on the sofa, watched tv, read for a while and then headed up to bed at around 10pm.

Sleep normally came easy to Wendy. Tonight however, was a different story. Her head had grown accustomed to the accusations of infidelity. But now a new thought bounced around inside her skull. It rattled around like an electron on supercharge and she knew it was only a matter of time before the bubble the housed it burst.

The murders had started around three months ago. Not long after that Bill had become irritable and on occasion downright unpleasant. A week or so later he had started working late. 

"It's just a conincidence' Wendy told herself. She hadn't believe it when she thought her husband of twenty years was having an affair, and she believe it even less now.

A feeling of cold dread swept over her. She looked over at her Bill. He was on his back, his breathing was deep and peaceful, yet now, for the first time since… ever, Wendy wondered about what rage lurked beneath the surface.

Was it her? Did she cause him so much grief and stress that he had to beat and strangle strangers. A myriad of troubling thoughts swam through Wendy's mind, cascading over one another they lurched forwards; an emotional tsunami. When sleep finally took hold of her, the dreams she had were anything but pleasant. She was in the park, in was after dark and echoing all around her was the wet smacking sound of a fist and face meeting. These were followed up by screams that brought a chill over Wendy's whole body. It sounded like the howl of an injured wolf calling to the night air for help.

When she woke, it was with a start and Wendy found her bed covers on the floor, the duvet on one side of the bed, and the cover on the other. Bill was nowhere to be seen.

He had left her a note saying he was heading to the office early for a change, and that he hoped it would mean he could be home a bit sooner.

'Before the curfew and the police patrols in the park.' Wendy thought to herself. Her heart ached as the pull of emotions threatened to rip her apart.

The day passed in a blur, and before she knew it, Wendy looked at the clock and saw it was nearly three. She was sitting on the sofa staring at the same cup of coffee she had made that morning. Still none the wiser, Wendy rose to make herself a new coffee. The sound of the front door slamming shut caused her to jump and spill half of the pot of coffee granules onto the floor.

"Bill, honey, is that you?" Wendy asked timidly. He heart was racing. She was scared. Bill never came home during the day, but only he ever slammed the door like that. Kicking it with his feet as he walked in, normally reading the mail.

"Yeah it's me babe." His voice called back. He sounded excited.

"I thought you were working late." Wendy answered him hesitantly. She heard him rummaging through the small table that stood by the front door."

"I am, but I left something and I really need it." He snapped back. A few moments later, having found what he was looking for, Wendy heard Bill open the door to the garage. It was where he kept all of this things. He gathered what he needed and left without saying a word.

Wendy followed him to the door and watched him drive away. Reacting on instinct, she grabbed her car keys and ran down the drive to her old Ford Focus. Her heart was racing as she pulled out into the street and set off in pursuit of her husband.

'You're being stupid.' Wendy chided herself as she drove. 'Bill isn't a serial killer and he isn't having an affair. You would know. You live with the man.' Wendy gripped the wheel with white knuckles, her brow was beaded with sweat as she tried to force herself to accept the thoughts her mind created.

"What about the BTK Killer. He was married. His wife never knew. Or Gacy, he was a fucking party clown for christ's sake." Wendy finally snapped. Her voice was high-pitched and out of character.

Up ahead, Bill made the turn onto Chestnut road. The main road that led towards Normandy Park.

"Oh Bill." Wendy sighed. The tears that she felt refused to flow. Instead all she could feel was guilt at having driven the man she loved to commit such acts. He loved his job, and adored his children. Take that away and Wendy knew she was the only thing left.

Bill parked his car in front of an old block of flats. It was a run down building and boarded not only the park but the river too. Parking his car, Bill jumped out and his a cap on his head and his jacket pulled around his ears he ran across the street the through the unlocked front door of the building just before a police patrol car came around the corner.

Following close, Wendy ran into the building just before the doors to the stairwell closed.

She followed Bill up five flights of stairs before coming to a stop in a run down hallway. The walls were stained and along the ceiling ran a thick line of mold. The stench of stale cigarettes… and Wendy could have sworn cabbage, was heavy in the air.

Wendy's entire body shook with tension as she walked down the hall. She jumped at every noise and her head began to throb. She strained to listen, fearing that she had lost him. Had he seen her following him and given her the slip. No, he couldn't have. There was no other way for him to go. There seemed to be only one flight of stairs.

Wendy paused, about to curse herself for being so stupid when she heard a song coming through the walls. It was faint, but it was a country song, and seeing as how they lived in a low-income English coastal town, the chance of there being another country music fan in the area was slim. It came from apartment 17 b, if the numbers were to be trusted. The door opposite was 57 a.

Wendy paused, and they she heard him.

"No, no, no, no, that's not right. Fuck," Bills voice roared. There was no mistaking it was him. A heavy thudding sound followed and Wendy felt her world go cold. Her knees wobbled, but just as she was about to fall, a strange and steely resolve came over her. The police had no idea who the killer was. No clues that had led to anything substantial. Besides, she could give him an alibi for any night of the week. She loved him, and together they would get through it.

'Wendy reached for the door handle as another groan came from the room. She gripped the handle and lowered it. The door pushed open.

Wendy's heart froze in her chest. She had no idea what to expect when she entered the room. She had prepared herself for blood. Lots of blood. The papers had said that the savage nature of the attached had turned the stomaches of ever the most experienced police officers. She had certainly not prepared herself for what she found inside the small apartment.

It was empty save for a desk. Paper had been plastered all around the walls. Empty pizza boxes, soda cans and chips packets littered the floor and a cloud of tobacco hung just below the ceiling. Bill sat behind the desk and as she watched he punched the desk, reproducing the thudding sound Wendy had heard in the hall. With another groan Bill shook his head and threw his arms wide in frustration.

It was then that he saw his wife, standing open-mouthed in the doorway. He jumped up, knocking back the chair he had been sitting on.

"Wendy, honey, what are you doing here?" Bill was startled, and clearly embarrassed.

Wendy didn't her him. Her eyes were focused on the open laptop that sat on the desk, and the thick pile of paper that lay before it.

"What's going on here." She asked. Suddenly afraid that he was too far gone.

Bill moved forward and hugged her. He held her right. His body was damp with sweat. "Oh I wanted to tell you." He sounded as though he was about to burst out laughing.

"What are you talking about. What is this place. What are you doing here?" Wendy's head buzzed with a barrage of new questions. She was already trying to think about how the answers fitted together to make her husband the murderer that had a whole town living in fear.

"I'm sorry, but I can't help it. It's who I am. It's part of me, it always has been, but now, I just can't hide it any more." Wendy looked at her husband. He looked tired, exhausted even. His face was pale and his eyes were puffy.

"It's okay baby. We can get through it together. We don't have to tell the kids." Wendy shook as she spoke, not sure if she could really keep to the promise she was making. "But you will have to promise me you will stop. Stop now before it gets any worse. " Wendy begged. She couldn't take her eyes away from the paper. His manifesto she was sure. He was building up to something, that was why he had killed twice in three days.

"What do you mean," Bill stood up and held his wife at arm's length. "Joanne knows all about it. If it wasn't for her encouragement I wouldn't be doing this." Bill smiled.

Wendy's mouth fell to the floor, or so it felt. "You bastard. How dare you blame our daughter." Wendy snapped and before she knew it, she reached out and slapped Bill hard across the face.

 "What was that for?" Bill asked shocked.

"You know damned well what that was for." Wendy felt hot tears burn her skin. "I was ready to forgive you, I could accept who you were, but only if we could keep Joanne out of it." Wendy's rage built.

Bill took a step backwards shocked by his wifes reaction. "Wendy, honey. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Joanne was here this afternoon helping me with something." Bill stammered.

"Nothing to be ashamed of." Wendy repeated, amazed at the callousness of her husband. She had expected a reaction but nothing like this.

"It's only a first draft, I'll admit, but damn it Wendy, this tale has been inside me since college. I can;t hide it any more. I have to write it down." Bill cried out.

Wendy felt the room begin to spin, her mind free-wheeled out of control. "What are you talking about." She screamed, the rage continued to surge out of her.

"I quit my job to become a writer. The company was making cuts, they asked me if I would consider going and I did. They gave be a great severance package, and I decided to finally follow my heart and become a writer." Bill was sweating more now, as he confessed his darkest secret than he had during the whole exchange the preceded it.

"A writer." Wendy echoed, "A writer. That's what has you hiding in strange buildings on the other side of town." She suddenly had to work hard to fight off a fit of the giggles.

"I didn't know how to break it to you. Joanne helped me get this place. It's a dump, but it is cheap that's all I needed." Bill smiled and moved to one side to let his wife see his new workplace. 

Several hours later the couple emerged from the writer's den arm in arm. "I can't believe that you are writing a romance novel." Wendy rose onto the tips of her toes and kissed her husband. 

"I can't help it. It's who I am. I just needed to admit it to myself." Bill smiled and the headed out into the evening air. In the distance, the clock struck half past seven.

As the couple entered the stairwell, a door of apartment 57 a opened, and a dark figure emerged, and in his hand he held a blood stained claw hammer.

My New Favorite Review…. Ever

I am going to keep it short and sweet for you all today.

I just woke up to find a new review in my email inbox. It is quite frankly one of the best reviews I have ever received and the best I could ever really want. It is honest and quite frankly awesome. So naturally, I just had to share it with you.

In popular culture, hell, as a concept, has become a diluted and cartoonish idea that is oftentimes thrown around in a light-hearted manner, usually suggestive of a wild partying vibe (as in the AC/DC song "Highway to Hell" that Alex Laybourne likely had as inspiration for his book's title). However, Laybourne's hell is not of this novel variety, but rather a nightmare inspired by the fire and brimstone imagery perpetuated by most Christian faiths, only ratcheted up to ten. The result is a crushingly brutal horror novel set mostly in a vile and awful place that is downright cringe worthy.

In a sort of updating of Dante's imagining of the underworld, Highway to Hell features a group of characters that we meet as they are each about to die. Slowly, Laybourne reveals them to us in the moments just before their demise. Then, after getting us acquainted with them and bumping each off, we enter a judgment zone of hell with them as they each face a vicious reckoning for their lives' biggest sins. This stop in hell, though, is not their souls' final stop. After the first ordeal following their deaths, they soon learn that they are now players in a struggle between Lucifer and God for the fate of the worlds.

For the rest of the review you are going to have to click here and take a trip to the Strange Amusements, home to fellow horror enthusiast Nicolas Strange.

How Important is a Blog

I am sitting here, trying hard to think of something to write about. It's been another busy day and maybe I just need to sit back, relax and come back a little later. However, my writing schedule is packed into a fairly hectic family life, and so here I am. But do I need to blog? Could I not just continue to work on my novel.

The answer, I think, is both and neither. Yes, I need to work on my novel, but to do that I need to be in a certain frame of mind, and so a good old-fashioned - if something like blogging could possibly have gained the status of being old-fashioned – blog post is just what the doctor ordered.

This then got me thinking about blogging, and the role it plays in the grand scheme of things.

I enjoy blogging, whether I am just purging my mind… much like at this very moment, or if I have something useful and or (hopefully) interesting to say. However, what role does it play in my writing.

I cannot say for certain, but I do not think I have sold any books from my blog and have only seen a couple of links through to Amazon where it is sold. However, the numbers are probably a little higher than that.

I digress,

As writers, building a platform is key, it was one of the first things I remember reading about when I entered the world of blogging. Now, I don't know how one gauges the size of a platform, nor the position of it. I would hate to have built mine facing the wrong direction.

A blog is a great place to start, a strong foundation which you can then build upon. That is how I see it at least. I have been going just over a year now, and have seen my stats increase every month. I have hit a sort of steady pace this year, and while the figures are not astronomical, they are consistent.

However, I have noticed that there is a big difference in my number of daily visitors on days when I post, compared to days when I don't. I don't mean a handful, but many multiples of ten. This fact sticks in my mind, and as a result, I feel that I am pressuring myself to write a post every day in order to keep my stats up.

I am not saying that this is detracting from my writing, but it does eat into my time to a certain extent, but I am more in a quandary over how much I should be pressuring myself to blog.

Is it necessary to post every day just for the sake of keeping stats high, or should I just blog about something when I have something specific to say?

What do you think? Are you sick of my random ramblings and wish I would keep my trap shut until I have something to say. Kind of like an If you can't say anything nice kind of deal. Or do I entertain you enough with my random musings and brain farts to keep you coming back for more?