Taking everything into account, it works pretty well for me to write on the Internet. I suppose I'd prefer a regular column in the New York Times. A series of bestselling collections in books would also be preferable. And I might find the ability to project my blog posts into the minds of all dreaming people everywhere to be irresistible, but those were always the more unlikely ways it would play out. The more likely is that I would fill notebooks no one would see except for possibly some rejecting editors and a few friends.
So instead, in between those extremes we have the ever ready and available Internet. Each day I work out my careful message. Each night I tie it to the leg of a Passenger Pigeon. All night the intrepid bird flies. And each morning my message is delivered to the Internet fairy. Who gives three grains of magic corn to the pigeon. Who is returned to me.
Or something like that.
The point is that I write.
My writing is made available to everyone in the entire Universe who has access to the Internet.
And the chips fall where they may.
Actually I have not yet been able to find any of the chips.
But I have made good friends of the pigeon.