Now THIS makes an impact. Everyone wants to go to The Ritz! Now, let's be real. My humble blog will never be as mighty as this legend, but I'd certainly like it to be as welcoming and for people to want to come inside. Please help me figure out how I can get a diamond slightly as big as the Ritz

Dear Ether, 

I was having a very interesting debate about blogs the other night with a fellow astronaut in the sphere.  He also happens to be a marketing strategist so he thinks in a way that I most certainly do not.  His insight into this world is fascinating.  

I know blogging isn’t about statistics, but c’mon, we all take a gander at them.  Not to be competitive and get book deals with Penguin, but to see if anyone out there is reading us.  After five months my blog stats have remained the same and this has concerned me.  I don’t understand why I’m not getting more hits and why my hit rates aren’t steadily rising (I post every day and I try and choose lovely photos!).  Is my site unsightly?  Are my pictures ugly?  Are my titles/captions bad?  My content rubbish?  I’m worried.  Well, marketing maestro asked me a very interesting question.  What was my bounce rate?  Well, quite high actually.  This, he said, was key.  He said people were clicking on my site and then leaving before they had a chance to read my content. Those who read my work probably liked it. This proved the consistency of my solid number I could count on every day. But most other people never got that far.  Here’s the analogy he thought best:  It’s like having a restaurant. You’ve got great food, an amazing chef and a great interior with lovely staff.  Hey, even the toilets are nice with Molton Brown hand soap.  But, the awning is rubbish, the sign is torn, you haven’t swept the sidewalk and your curb appeal is just awful.  No one is going to walk in and open the door to see the innards because they think the outside is a reflection of the inside.  

But is this so?  Is that what’s going on?  Or, is the market simply too saturated with blogs? OR people can’t be asked to read anything longer than a blurb or two and my posts are too lengthy so when they see my post they find it too daunting? All these questions and more are what make up my blog post today.  For those of you who’ve “stepped into my restaurant,” who’ve actually made it this far into my content, I’d love your advice.  I want more people to read my writing and readership to grow, but something is wrong and I can’t put my finger on it.  So, today I’m asking for suggestions.   Think of it as me doing a bit of blog market research.  I’m going to put being humble aside for a moment.  I think my content is really decent.  But again, people aren’t getting that far.  

I am not looking for a pat on the back.  PLEASE.  Don’t toot my horn or try to be nice.  Honesty is what I’m looking for.  When I set out to write One of 365 I wanted it to be read by a lot of people so I could connect with the world and grow.  I don’t want to be another blog statistic.  I could really use your advice.  Hey, if you think I’m wrong and think my content is shit, fuck it—let me know.  Speak your mind.  I want my restaurant to flourish and you guys are the people I want to come in and enjoy a meal with.

I also think this will be an interesting case study for other bloggers out there to think about how this might aid you as well if you have the same concerns.  

On that note……I appreciate your feedback and wait in haste for thoughts.  My ripped awning is waiting to be fixed.  

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

As the world spins around and people live their lives, I wonder, where do I fit in? Where do I belong? I've been a nomad--a bit of a gypsy my whole life. So tell me Ethers, where AM I from?

Dear Ether,

People often ask me where I’m from. It’s so hard to say. If I say London, they’ll cock an eyebrow, wonder why I don’t have an accent, and when I explain I only lived there 8 years, think I’m affected. If I say I’m from Los Angeles, I almost have to cough it out. I find it difficult to believe. Half my life I don’t even remember spending in California, and the last 8 were when I was a teenager and didn’t really have freedom to see the city. I spent 3 years in CT and 1 year in NYC. So I guess I have to technically say I was BORN in Los Angeles….but really, where am I from?

When I close my eyes and ask this question, I picture myself with my face plastered against the grimy plexiglass of the last row on the tube being jerked to sleep by its stops and lurches on my way home from an exhausting days work. I see myself in a magnificent coat with a full scarf and a sugar-free vanilla skinny venti latte from Starbucks. I imagine great jeans, my All Saints boots and a fag in Camden heading to a freelance job walking to the beat of my own heart amongst the throng of other colorful people, all while seeing the florist set up her hut diagonal from the tube station. I visualize English gent and I on a night bus when we first met laughing before we cared about money and being adults, heading into the depths of ugly New Cross. The feeling of a cup of tea to soothe you after a bitter day and watching the rain pour down and just being so grateful to be indoors. And what about fingering the wares at a market stall and being called ”love,” or walking through the Sussex countryside and passing the same river Virgina Woolf drowned herself in all those years ago?

And what of Los Angeles? Again, I slam my eyes shut, feeling my lashes against the tips off my cheekbones, and I see memories too—just in different hues. Bright blue skies with sun that warmed your skin and made you golden after a day at the beach. Nights when my brother and I would be bundled into the back of our old station wagon and my mom and dad would take us to drive-in move theaters (relics now) in our pajamas. Every year on my birthday being taken to the same Mexican restaurant that had been around since 1927 and having mariachi’s sing to me and have my picture taking wearing a sombrero so big that it covered my whole face. Looking down at my feet and seeing the heavy tan line my flip-flops left on my feet. The smell of the gardeners laying down fertilizer in October for seed to grow for fresh grass. Pumpkin pie and gravy for Thanksgiving and catching my dog on the table while we were all in the other room having hour d’oeuvres. The overwhelming beauty of fuchsia bougainvillea growing wildly all over neighbor’s gardens. My darling standard poodle whom I used to lay out in the backyard with and talk to for hours until it got too chilly and then we’d go inside and we’d talk for even longer debating issues of the heart!

I now reside in Los Angeles, but in my soul I know it is temporary. I know I am bound for somewhere else. This place and I, it never had a connection. And being here, I remember that now. And I pine for London. But boy did she and I have our problems too. Where’s next? Where will I end up being from? I don’t know. I feel just because you’re born somewhere doesn’t make you from there. It just makes that the place you were issued your birth certificate. Like I’ve said before, I feel like more of a Londoner than a Los Angelino—but not according to my records or when I’m issued jury duty.

I always thought it was so funny that I was considered an immigrant. Me. A white, upper-middle class girl, with a Master’s degree and some cash in her pocket. Terrible. I know. That I should feel like I shouldn’t be looked at as the same as someone from Africa or Mexico. I’ll never forget sitting in East Croydon in the Home Office waiting for my papers. I was very nervous. I didn’t know if my visa was going to get reissued. A guy about my age from Nigeria spoke to me. He saw my passport in its clear folder. “You’ll have no problems” he smiled. “I don’t know, I’m really worried this time. I’m applying for residency.” He grinned and said, “You are white, American and a woman. Me, I’m black, a man and from Nigeria. I have been here 6 times. If I get rejected this time, I am out of chances.” I looked down to the floor and didn’t know what to say. He said cheerfully, “Don’t feel bad. Remember, you have a good home to go back to. I have a good family too. I just want a better life. Just remember, it’s all about where you’re from.” We chatted a bit more and his number was called. I wished him well. Then it was my turn to go to the desk.  I was shaky but determined. Within ten seconds I was approved. They were most concerned about how I was going to pay. I still wonder if 7 was that man’s lucky number and if he really meant what he said about remembering where you were from—that no matter where you are in the world—you can always go home again—wherever that may be.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365