Yet Another Treatise on the Blogging Experience

In a recent post, I remarked how journal land has been experiencing yet another shrinking fit. More long-time journalers, some nearly dug up with the foundation of AOL j-land, have hung up their spurs.

I hate that people are losing interest in the blog experience. I feel each loss personally. I’ve learned so much from blogging. I’ve learned about the lives, feelings and beliefs of people all over the country and beyond. I’ve learned that, regional demographics aside, there are people everywhere just like me. People who love to write; people who want to write. People who have to write.

I broke onto the blogging scene back in September of 2003. So I’ve been doing this for 3½ years. And the experience has been so different from anything I might have predicted going in. So many of us have remarked upon the surprise aspect of blogging—the community that grew up in the infant blogosphere. Especially among the pioneer journalers on AOL. That community…it has served as both carrot and stick. It has been, at various times, the best thing and the worst thing about blogging.

Ahhh…that unanticipated experience of "Comments…" Dialogues and critiques inspired by MY writing…by the ideas and opinions that had mouldered for so long only inside my own head. That was the fix to which I became instantaneously and hopelessly addicted. And it soon became obvious that, like any addiction, blogging would become a roller coaster spin of euphoric highs and belly-scraping lows. The highs kept me securely chained to my modem…the lows sent me grasping for the nearest heavy, sharp object with which to hack those chains asunder.

Of course blogging is a fad. And, as such, it inspired some people to blaze in and burn out of the scene with astonishing speed. And then there are those who found themselves treading the ethereal waters during the calm, uncomplicated doldrums of their lives. As soon as more engaging activities stirred up the waters, they swam on. Still, some of us—the dogged few—remain. Why?

For me, contrary soul that I am, the experience has been much the opposite from most. As was true for others, I dove into the journal pool when my life held little else. I became blog-o-centric; journaling was the only challenging, colorful, engaging thing in my life. But the dark side of the blogosphere—the hit and run relationships, the venomous "friendships," the pretenders and the liars and the criminals—make the ether a treacherous place. It can promise redemption and slit your throat in one swift motion. A sad, desperate, scary place to be when one is in a vulnerable frame of mind. Compelling and repulsive at the same time. But now…now that I have a life outside the blogosphere, I can truly appreciate its benefits without being poisoned by its miasma.

Benefits? Oh yes…they are there. In spades. Is it the friendships—those internet relationships that can be as frail and inconstant as the ether upon which they are carried? Yes, and no… the very fragility of the ethereal foundation of those bonds makes them forever straddle the line between blessing and curse.

No…the friendships are an arguable bonus, but they aren’t the real prize.

The big thing, the ultimate reward of which I became aware only recently, is the market. The showcase. The unprecedented opportunity for people like me—those who have always been writers but, for whatever reasons, have been unable to do anything with our compulsive scribblings—to be read. Heard. Appreciated. With the explosion of this great open-air market of communication known as "the internet," anyone—anyone at all—can set up a stand and display their wares.

Consider the plight of the writer: There are traditional showcases for almost every other left-brained activity. Painters, craftspeople, musicians… It’s easy for them to share the fruits of their cherished talents with other human beings. If nothing else, they can display their art on any old street corner. They don’t have to fill pages and studios and warehouses with work that no one else will ever see. Where is that kind of outlet for those of us who wield the pen as our creative instrument? Try standing on a street corner and reading poetry, or handing out copies of an astute political analysis to passers-by. Street-peddling words and ideas would more likely result in a ride in the back of a squad car than a chorus of "oohs" and "ahs" from appreciative pedestrians.

But now…NOW we have it. A place. A bazaar. Somewhere to get our words out there. Without the interference of a middle-man who sets himself up as judge and jury, and tells us our words—our ideas—are not good enough. Believe it, create it, write it, post it. And someone, somewhere will read it. How amazing, how utterly cool is that?

So that’s it. That’s the hook—the thing that will keep me chained to the blogosphere. Not the wonky relationships, nor the serial-drama allure of peering into the intimate lives of people I don’t know, nor the desperation for some kind—any kind—of human interaction. It’s the market. The place to set up my easel and display my stuff to other human beings. The place where someone outside my own head can read, and consider, and conclude, "That’s good writing."

Even if I touch only one other person in this way, it’s worth every gut-spilling keystroke. So here I am. And here I will stay. For as long as my fingers can make any sense at all out of the harpies flying around in my head.

Tags: writing, why I blog