What is it, a smart and insightful friend asked recently, with blogging? He was, I believe, sniffing out some of the less savory dynamics that seem almost inevitably to accompany blogs, and the writing of them. An attachment grows. The checking of stats becomes compulsive. Readers can feel a growing love of the sound of the keys clicking out the writer’s opinions far and wide. And bloggers can grow harsh and fractious, which is to say, boring. Now, with the unexpected departure of one of the best practitioners of the form, more than one commentator has declared the blog dead.
Well, yes. And, maybe, no.
When I was eight years old, in 1975, I was given what was advertised as a “wordless book.” “In My Own Write,” said the cover.” Not just a diary, no, this was a book that would be about things other than just what happened that day. Insightful reflections, maybe? A poem or two? Anyone who knew me knew that what I wanted to be when I grew up was “an author.”
It is many years later. The Internet is not so beautiful and pristine. It is crowded, jumbled, very loud. Somehow, though, that is just what makes it possible for me to carve out a space. I thought that maybe now, I would write a few pages.
I do not check the stats on this blog. It is an offering. Take whatever you can, and, if you comment, or let me privately about some benefit to you, that will just be icing on the cake.
The blog is dead. Long live the blog.