No, You Don't Get a Comment Section

Holy fuck, what to write about this morning.

Well, let's continue with the recent blog criticisms.

I had someone reach out recently. Angrily. They were mad because I wrote what I wanted to write on my fucking blog. More specifically, they opined that it wasn't fair that they couldn't publicly comment on what I wrote.

On my personal fucking blog.

Clearly this person doesn't understand what a blog is.

For what it's worth, I don't allow comments on my website. At all. There's no comment section. There's no public forum underneath each post where everyone gets to weigh in on whether Kate had an acceptable thought that morning.

I don't invite the neighbors over to comment on my curtain choices.

I don't invite the good town folk of Santa Fe into my bank account to comment on how I should be spending my money.

And I don't provide a little box underneath my writing where strangers, acquaintances, critics, or anyone else can explain what I should have written instead.

This is fucking America.

You know what, though? You can comment on my books.

There's a place to leave reviews on Amazon. So if you're just fucking dying to publicly evaluate my writing, I've got you covered. You can go onto Amazon, purchase a copy of And So, She Rose or A Survivor's Guide to Survival, read the fucking thing, and leave a review.

Capitalist freedom on full display.

You're fucking welcome.

In my last blog-related post, I pointed out that you also have the freedom to find something else to read. And I stand by that. I really do. There's a metric fuck-ton of content out there. I'm sure you can find someone who parrots your beliefs rather than challenging them, someone producing some mind-numbing shit you can drool over while stuffing a Pop-Tart into your mouth and waiting for the coffee to hit.

But there's yet another alternative.

Because freedom is like that.

Freedom opens up the fucking field of possibilities.

You ready?

Here it is.

You could create your own website.

You could write two books. Write thirty short stories. Start working on another book. And, oh yeah, write a fucking blog almost every morning.

Yes, I know. That'll probably be the next criticism: I don't actually publish every day.

No shit.

I publish when the desire hits, when I have the time, and when I have something worth saying. I write every morning, but sometimes what comes out is shit. Sometimes what comes out isn't a blog at all. Sometimes it's a short story. Sometimes it's another piece of a novel I'm working on. Sometimes the words need to sit there for a while before I even know what the fuck they are.

But I show up.

I write.

And that's kind of my larger fucking point.

If you don't like what I write, you could always write your own blog. Get disciplined. Show up every fucking day with words. Create your own content. Publish it. Pay for your own little piece of the internet. Market the fuck out of yourself. Build your own readership. Say whatever the hell you think needs to be said.

You can do all of that in a free society.

So go forth, little birdie.

Fly.

If anything shines through my writing, I hope it's my love of freedom. I hope it's my disdain for oppressive governments. I hope it's my love of riding. I hope it's my love for the woman who owns my fucking heart. Maybe you'll find a little humor in some of these pieces. Maybe you'll find the edge of a tear in others.

Maybe you'll disagree with me.

That's okay too.

I write what I write, and I have no fucking intention of apologizing for it.

I write my truth. I write my perspective. I write my troubles. I write my feelings. I use writing as an examination tool, no different than an HVAC tech uses a trusty inspection mirror. I use writing as a processing tool, no different than a liberal leftist uses therapy.

I use writing to tell stories.

To write essays.

To share perspectives.

To gain insight.

To stir conversations.

To share information.

To entertain whoever the fuck wants to read my words.

But stirring conversation doesn't mean I'm obligated to build you a stage on my website so you can have one.

That's the distinction.

You are completely free to disagree with me. You're free to complain about me. You're free to tell your friends I'm an asshole. You're free to write an entire fucking dissertation explaining why Kate Sjostrand is wrong about everything.

Hell, buy a domain.

Put it on the internet.

I'll defend your freedom to do it.

What you aren't entitled to is space on my website to do it.

That's my little corner of the internet.

I paid for it.

I built it.

I fill it with my words.

And I'll decide what fucking goes there.

So, no.

I'm not fucking sorry.