When I look to see what is my niche in the blogosphere, I first look at the myriad of animal-related blogs out there:
- product review blogs
- blogs that want to teach you stuff
- blogs that are all about being cute
- blogs that are all about the horrific things happening to animals
- blogs that have fantastic photos of animals
- blogs that steal stuff from other sources, I call them “warehouse blogs”
So which category best describes me?
I’ve tried product review. At first it was nice to get free stuff in the mail. But if you don’t give glowing reviews of products, you don’t get asked again. My new policy is, if you only want me to advertise your product, you’re going to PAY me to advertise your product.
I see myself as a teacher. But I’m not like the coach that was supposed to teach health but instead kept everyone entertained with stories of football glory days. I’m more like the teacher that, try as she might, can’t get you to share her fascination with world history.
I admit it. I do use the cute card. A lot. But I’m not a very good photographer, so I either need to buy a decent camera or get better at the funny material to go along with those photos.
I do talk about the horrific stuff. I try to do so in a way that’s palatable, in a way that encourages you to do something about that horrific stuff. I don’t know I’m very good at that. But I hold out hope that seeds are planted.
Fantastic photos? Nah…… see two paragraphs above.
Steal stuff? I might get my idea from you, but I do my own homework.
In other words, my dream of taking this blog public and making a living off of being what i am today is probably not realistic.
‘Terence, this is stupid stuff:
You eat your victuals fast enough;
There can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,
It gives a chap the belly-ache.
The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head:
We poor lads, ’tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow.
Pretty friendship ’tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad:
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.’