I’m going to see a writer read her work tonight. I love these events, love listening to someone with ownership read something she’s viewed and reviewed dozens of times. I like thinking about where the words were written. In a coffee shop? On a writing retreat, at a kitchen table, overlooking the beach in winter? Maybe while the visiting parents slept, a woman in yoga pants and pimple cream with 15 minutes to steal. I love wondering too whether or not the writer knew there was something to the text from the get go, that it would be worthy from the time she had a paragraph on the page. Or, like a wedding dress appointment with too many best friends, did someone utterly hate it? Recommend she throw out baby with bath water and a hand towel for good measure?

I don’t read many blogs anymore. I find the process less stimulating than I used to; there is less to read that hasn’t been said. There’s also something removed about most sites, now simple telling and retelling without much detail or emotion. It’s part of why I love Twitter so much; we get the real goods in 140-character reality without excessive editing. We see rage and disdain and joy and discomfort that sometimes don’t translate well to longer pieces. I do wish more and more that there was a forum for bloggers to read their works aloud, something beyond the yearly BlogHer event at which only a select few read posts before the crowd. I sometimes think of organizing something along these lines, at first very small and fueled by cocktails and a busy venue. Just a forum in which writers without agents and book deals can hear their voices, hear the words we all write for others even when we say it’s solely for ourselves.

Maybe I’ll start in my living room. Join me, would you? There’s wine in the fridge and the cats — and certainly I — make great listeners.