Visit me at my new blog!

Hi! Thank you for coming to my blog! I’ve moved to self-hosted blogging, and you can visit me at www.deanlozarie.com. Again, that’s www.deanlozarie.com. Clickety-click! Thanks for dropping by!

[Blogging] Getting no attention? No retreat, no surrender!

In this post, I’ll try to encourage bloggers out there who are having a hard time gaining a loyal readership. I hope you’ll trust me on this, because I’m one of those “nobody” bloggers, who gets less than 10 page views a day and whose feed is subscriber-less.

With the blogosphere as HUGE as it is, even getting 10 regular readers is a taxing task. Many bloggers give up easily (like me, before) and lose many opportunities. What they don’t know is that cyberspace is very much like the real world, and the phrase “Stumble seven times, get up eight” very much applies. If you’re a struggling blogger, remember these tips.

Recognize your passion for writing

Of course, bloggers have got to have some sort of passion for writing. Blogging, after all, was originally conceived as a sort of online journal–not a moneymaking, link-harvesting web page. The lack of a passion for the written word is quite often the root of blogger unhappiness—no matter how successful one is in blogging. If you recognize your passion for writing, this can always be your asylum. It’s okay if no one visited your blog today. Just remember: “I blog because I love to write.”

Be selfish

Okay, so your SiteMeter says that you’ve got 38 page views today. About half of those visitors stayed on one of your write-ups’ pages for around three minutes, but no one left a comment. Ouch, right? Well, when that happens, just say, “Ah. Screw them visitors. If they can’t understand what I’m saying on my blog, they’re way out of my league.” I’ve tried it a few times, and it lifted a sizeable amount of pressure off my chest.

Bask in the glory of that one comment

You’ve got this idea for a new write-up. The idea is so unique, so pristine that you’re confident that a Google Search will reveal that you’ll be the first to write about this topic. Okay, so you fire up Windows Live Writer and let your touch-typing fingers rip. Five hours later, after relentless copyreading and re-copyreading, your masterpiece is done. You hit the publish button, send an email announcing the birth of your write-up to a mailing list or two, and sit back and wait for it to rain traffic.

Unfortunately, instead of rain, there is only one commenter. No torrential rainfall. No epic cyclone. Just one dewdrop. One comment.

Now, you can look at this situation either as a glass being half-empty, or being half-full. I suggest you take the latter. Instead of saying, “Nehoo! Only one comment??!”, say “Holy crap! WAKE THE KIDS, LET’S THROW A PARTY, SOMEBODY COMMENTED ON MY BLOG!“

For the under-the-radar blogger, there is a quote that goes, “There are two kinds of people in this world: those who comment on my blog, and those who can go to hell.”

Keep writing

Maybe the reason why your blog does not have a steady readership is because prospective readers haven’t found your content interesting yet. Write, write, write—one day, you might be able to craft that post which will convert from-time-to-time readers into RSS subscribers. (If you’re lucky enough, they might even skip the RSS feed and instead they’ll read your blog on a browser. This means you’re special, in a good way!)

Oh, and here are some copywriting tips and, if you’re having trouble with words, some writing tips.

There is no white flag

You might be tempted to just throw in the towel, just raise the white flag, and offer a truce with the almighty blogging god who refuses to shower your corner of cyberspace with readership. Well, guess what: there is no towel, no white flag, and the blogging god isn’t that almighty. Giving up will just make you feel empty and unfulfilled. If you quit now, you’ll want to go back to blogging later and then you’ll have to start from scratch. Giving up is no option! NO RETREAT, NO SURRENDER.

If all else fails, switch niches

Let’s assume your running a blog competing in a niche—technology, for example. You have to accept the truth, no matter how painful it might be. Maybe your niche is just too competitive, so much so that you just can’t compete in it? Maybe you don’t have enough expertise to be consistently competitive in your niche? If so, then it is probably best to switch niches—choose something you’re comfortable with, and have expertise in.

You might consider this as sort of surrendering. (In the previous tip, I barred you from ever surrendering, right?) It is definitely not raising the white flag. Regard it as an advancement. Think of your previous niche as blogging quicksand—staying in it would’ve been fatal, but getting out of it, no matter how much effort and strength it entailed, would be beneficial to you.

There you go. I hope this provides inspiration for all distressed bloggers out there. Keep blogging!

[Warning!] Teenagers and Sexuality

I decided I’d begin this with a statement, and that statement would be the picture of Disney Channel star Miley Cyrus.

Miley Cyrus reveals her bra. Good clean fun?

Don’t look at me, I didn’t take that picture. Turns out, this and other pictures of Miss Cyrus have been floating around the Internet (I found this on Google Image Search).

Vanity Fair

I’m growing up in a home entirely devoid of any make-up kit. My mother–the only woman in the family–felt no need for any eyeliner, blush-on, lipstick, or anything of that sort. Rarely does she even wear any jewelry, save for the standard sparkly earrings on her lobes. She doesn’t even wear her wedding ring–not because of lack of devotion, but because she said the ring made her finger itch.

I never understood womanly vanity. It seemed weird to occupy oneself with her physical appearance. The female, however, is perpetually immersed in herself. “Born staring into herself in the mirror,” I’d silently quip. Women spend twice or thrice more time in the bathroom than men; generally, women take up more closet space than men (although the opposite is true in my family); and shopping sprees take longer when a lady is involved.

It just seems so weird to try to present yourself to the public as someone different from who you really are. In an effort to make a good impression on people, you put on too much of this and too little of that, ending up actually making yourself look bad. Your skin tone is borderline abnormal, your lips are so red it looks like the skin on your mouth is one-one hundredths of a millimeter thick. Your clothes are skimpier than what is decent, so much so that a troubled middle-aged man might mistake you for a hooker.

I think it’s unnecessary, in other words. Or do I?

My mother puts on a fancy dress only once every week: Thursday, church day. She’d put on a nice blouse and decent denim skirt, wear a bracelet, maybe a hair clip if she’s feeling extra vain. That’s it. On our weekend worship service, she wears a uniform for her duties in church. That is as vain as she gets. (If you don’t count the times when she’d look at Kris Aquino‘s face on a magazine and say, “I’m going to Vicki Belo for a face lift.”)

Whenever we’d go to the mall (usually on Sunday afternoons), she would wear these just-short-enough denim shorts and some t-shirt she had printed for an anniversary of the GSIS, the government agency for which she (and dad) works. Her hair would often be a mess, and she couldn’t care less. Vanity never appeals to her. She thinks of it as useless human nature.

I think the same thing, too. But why is it that when I go to the mall with her, I cannot settle for denim shorts and a plain white shirt? I always feel the need to put on my best denim pants and the latest statement shirt from Penshoppe. Often times, in the bathroom, I stick my face to the mirror to investigate my pimples and pockmarks up close. I have even daringly put on a tad bit of powder on my face before to cover up the remnants of my once-abundant zits. (I’m not gay, in case you’re getting prejudicial.)

Human nature is what I blame for my attitude, my hypocrisy. Somewhere in that primordial goo, someone must’ve dropped something that resulted in vanity spreading far and wide across the globe. After all, even ancient civilizations were vain. Discovery Channel documented this one tribe who put enormous plates on their women’s mouths, and ridiculously heavy earrings on their lobes. Men of another tribe hid their members with penis gourds, farcical contraptions worn around the belt and containing a tube in which the man’s wand was placed. Even the Egyptians buried their pharaohs in an adorned casket; vanity did not end with life, instead it was carried on after the person breathed his last.

I wonder how I’d react if my future wife (gulp) would unpack her make-up kit first after we’ve moved into our new home. It won’t be an easy task to get used to it, that’s for sure. Growing up in a home where vanity was deemed irrelevant, if not discouraged (by mom, at least), I’ll have to take some time to adjust myself to that new, vanity-friendly atmosphere.

In the meantime, I should stop scaring myself.

First love

High school, they say, is the most enjoyable part of the education process. Well, if acne, armpit odor, newfound pubic hair, and insecurity appeal to you. Of course, we’ve all encountered this precarious stage. For me to be able to blog about it as I’m actually going through the process is exhilarating (as weird as that may sound).

High school is also where most people meet their first love. Many will argue that they met theirs in elementary. I maintain that love is improbable to find in those younger days. You’re too immature to differentiate infatuation and love, and too stupid to make a move. High school–which coincides with the onset of adolescence–means the development of your adult emotions. Your libido stirs. Suddenly the bathroom is more than a place for pooping and showering. You become explorative in many ways.

You fall in love.

That is every person’s tragedy.

It seems funny that I’m writing this. I’ve never had much luck with love, and have vowed to keep away from it (although my efforts have so far been less than successful). Nevertheless, here I am, in the darkness of my room, typing on Windows Live Writer as my neighbor’s radio is playing, tuned into Love Radio.

How cliche.

I can safely say that I got my first taste of love in my freshman year. There was this girl, my classmate, a timid chubby woman who liked me. At first, I paid her no attention. She was just another one of my classmates who I wasn’t really close to. We started text messaging each other, and it was always small talk. Did I eat my dinner yet, she’d ask. Yeah, I’d reply, how about you? She’d reply yes, too, and then ask if I did my homework. The conversations never touched anywhere near the topic of love, and I was fine with that.

In school, I slowly became attracted to her  (even though I’d told myself before that she wasn’t my type). It was her timorousness that appealed to me. She would always duck her head a bit and giggle silently whenever she thought of something humorous. Every day, when we would meet, she’d always say Hi to me in a passive but cute way.

With my sense of love still not fully bloomed at that time, I succumbed to her timidity. Soon, she occupied my thoughts. I bought a notebook which I assigned to be my diary, but it ended up being a sort of confession book about what I felt about her. I couldn’t muster the courage to tell her straight up that I liked her, so I poured all of my emotions into that notebook. That little notebook I covered with bond paper and plastic wrap. On the front, in Arial Black, the words “CONFESSIONS OF A DELUSIONAL WEIRDO”.

She herself kept a journal which she affectionately called “Blue”. Little did I know that she was writing all the stuff I was. One day, I made her an offer. “Look, I’ll let you read my journal if you let me read yours.”

With her face tomato-red (as was mine), she agreed, and we swapped journals.

Here I was, walking with her towards school, reading her journal, reading everything she thought about me, while she was doing the same thing. Two of our friends (who knew what was going on between us) were walking with us, as well, and they were bursting with delight at what was transpiring.

It was on that day that I told a girl I loved her when I knew I really meant it.

So, we’d become acquainted with the fact that we had this mutual feeling for one another. Now, in other countries, this would’ve meant we were automatically boyfriend and girlfriend. But here where I live, that didn’t hold true.

I should’ve courted her, but I didn’t, although with all sincerity, I thought she would’ve said yes in a heartbeat if I did. We exchanged I Love You’s several times over text messaging (mostly while our Math teacher was explaining this particularly confusing equation), but there was nothing beyond that. No stolen smacks on the lips. No secretive hugs. Just a bunch of “I Luv U” texts, maybe a few knowing glances at each other, and nothing else.

She called me on the phone one night and asked, “Are we in an official relationship?”

I seriously wet myself a little at that. A little. This was a big step for me. I hadn’t had a girlfriend before. Ever. I was that guy in class who, despite his decent looks, couldn’t get a goat to say “Yes” to his proposal even if he was wearing a tuxedo made out of grass. And now, this girl I liked and who liked me as well was asking me if we were in a full-fledged relationship.

I made what was possibly both the smartest and the dumbest decision I’ve ever taken in my 13 years of existence. I answered her question with, “Do you think we’re in a relationship?”

“I don’t know,” was all she said.

“I’m not deciding. You decide. You’re the girl,” I argued, and then added, “So, is it a deal or no deal?”

She replied in a whisper, “DEAL.” She said it in such a low voice that I could only just hear her breathe the words.

“What?” I said, unsure if I heard her right.

“DEAL,” she repeated, in the same low voice.

“Are you sure?” I said. I made it sound more like, “Uh-oh. Wrong answer.”

She said she wasn’t wholly sure, and I encouraged her to think really long and hard about it. I don’t regret telling her that, because I knew that if I made it official right then and there, I would soon regret it and break both our hearts.

We had to break the awkward conversation (I forgot why). The next day at school, we pretended like the phone call never happened, although for the rest of the day, and of the week, and of the month, the question really stuck with me: were we in a relationship?

I was never sane enough to answer that. But now, I guess I’m going to answer it once and for all. You could say that we had a special relationship, but the term “boyfriend and girlfriend” wouldn’t be the right one to describe it. We sure felt like we could take our friendship to a whole ‘nother level. At least, I did.

For some reason, I lost that love I felt for her, and life moved on. Still, even these days, more than a year after I fell in love with her, I still pause and ask myself, “If I said yes to her question, what would have happened?”

It seems weird to think about it now. I’ve had at least three crushes after her, and I was even seriously thinking about courting two of them. (The only thing that hindered me from courting the third one was her immaturity. I’m not going to expound.) Still, I won’t ever forget about that first love.

That chubby, timid woman whose aura appealed to me, whose dimply face once made my day, whose cute giggle made me all warm and fuzzy inside. That first love I will always cherish. Not because I choose to, but because love has this uncanny way of never letting me forget things.

Earlier in this write-up, I said that when people fall in love for the first time, it is their tragedy. I guess I’ll have to correct myself. In the time I spent spontaneously forming this article, I realized finally that love and pain come in one package. Pain equals learning. The scars may look gross, but the knowledge we gain is never a downside.

I will rephrase what I said earlier about love and tragedy.

It is in high school that people fall in love. It is a manifestation of emotional maturity, proof that we are ready to handle things greater than crushes and admiration.

It is in high school that people fall in love.

It is not a tragedy, but a coming of age, which might seem painful in the immediate aftermath, but is ultimately a stunning experience.