Running a Website's like Running a Farm

I grew up on a farm.

Didn’t like it.

It took way too much of my time.

But as my father said, what’s time to a hog?

I chopped corncobs to feed the cattle

I hauled two full and splashing water buckets a half mile to water the hogs.

I plowed the ground with a small Ford Farm All tractor. It wasn’t built for speed. I tried to run it hard and wide open. I lost two races to a terrapin and one to a salamander.

I planted corn.

I chopped corn.

I planted cotton.

I chopped cotton.

I picked them both, corn and cotton.

And when the days were cold and wet, and sleet was hanging thick in the air, the barbed wire fence would break, and we had to stretch it and tie it back together and wait for it to break again.

It was the same day after day, weekdays and weekends.

Nothing ever changed.

Won’t ever do it again, I said.

I’m doing it again.

It has nothing to do with a farm.

It’s all about the Website, Caleb and Linda Pirtle.

I write two serial chapters for two different novels every day. I sit down every morning, have no idea where the story is going, and hope against hope that the characters know the way. They usually do.

I write a blog every day.

I post at least two serial chapters and often three for other authors.

I post a handful of blogs written by other writers, run down photographs for each blog, dig out key tag words, catch as many typos as I can, and pray the blogs will all be up and running by the time daylight comes.

I get up at five o’clock every morning and run the traps on the site, making sure each and every new blog for the day is placed on the VG Facebook, my personal Facebook, Stumble Upon, Digg, Google Plus, and LinkedIn.

I work three tribes on Triberr.

I tweet like I’m calling hogs, and I’m just about as frantic.

I answer my personal emails.

And when I least expect it and can’t afford it, something goes haywire, and the site goes down, and I’m holding my breath that we don’t lose many visitors before it’s back up and running again.

It’s the same day after day, weekdays and weekends.

Nothing ever changes.

It’s no different from planting, chopping, and picking corn and cotton. It’s no different from feeding cattle or hauling water to the pigs. It’s no different from stringing new barbed wire when it has rusted and broken for the last time.

It takes all of my time.

But I don’t mind it all.

After all, my father was right.

What’s time to a hog?

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