On Blogging: Part I

I revived my blog as of late!

But, that’s sort of self-evident, no? You’re reading about me reviving my blog on my revived blog, so you already knew it was revived, right?

Anyway – the revived blog. I love blogging!

I’m treating this Blogger blog as I did my old LiveJournal back in the day. Man, oh man, I miss that sweet-ass LiveJournal (LJ). I wish the Russians didn’t get their vodka-soaked mitts on it. Things have changed since my LJ days, circa 2009, but pre-vodka-soaked mitts, LiveJournal was my ambrosia. LJ - and blogging - satisfied a desire I never knew I had: writing, with the possibility of somebody reading it.

I’ve always written. Prior to LJ, however, I never felt that anyone needed to or should read my shit. I write for only myself and had been content doing just that.

That all changed, though, when a friend wheedled me into creating an LJ account. I resisted, I really did! I was on my high-horse about blogging – a horse that was standing on a pedestal that was balanced on high-wire that was strung across two really tall skyscrapers. But, like many a-time that I’ve been on my high damned horse, I fell off spectacularly - down, down, down in the most ungraceful and comical manner. I eventually loved LJ, eventually became addicted. I embraced blogging and writing for public consumption and encouraged others to do so too.

It was fantastic! Back in those halcyon LJ days, we “bloggers” wrote. LJ was simply a text focused blog - a published word document, sans even Microsoft Word’s measly bells and whistles. LJ seemed to be full of if not writers, then creative types who enjoyed words at least. My kind of people, you know. Most posts scattered over LJ were long, journal-esque, autobiographical incident essays. I delighted in the reading of the mundane and the extraordinary of strangers’ lives. Sure, there was the occasional photo or picture that accompanied a post to illustrate or support an element, but LJ was first and foremost a writer’s community.

But then, I am ashamed to admit, I abandoned LJ. Once those aforementioned Russian mitts came along, the new LJ Overlord made site changes I didn’t like. Coupled with the alluring, meteoric rise of Facebook, LJ lost its shine for me and I stopped writing lengthy LJ posts. I incrementally migrated on over to Facebook — along with most of the world— and butchered my journal-esque writing down to status-length updates.

It was a dismal period in my life; a hole had formed in my spirit, and a tear had rent my heart. I was clueless and didn’t immediately attribute my discomfort to the lack of blogging. Now that I’m wiser, I realize that not blogging was wearing me down. Writing is cathartic for me. Writing provides a venue that offers one of the few times I ever feel heard… even if nobody reads my words. I get my thoughts out, uninterrupted and in an organized manner - a hard feat to accomplish with a human listener. The computer screen is a good listener – better than 90 percent of the people I know and talk to in real life. Blogging on LJ afforded me all this solace, but, like a turncoat, I abandoned my old friend for something fast, cheap and easy. (I do that sometimes. Don’t we all?)

Anyway, the blogging itch recently and thankfully resurfaced, and I weaseled my way back into the world of blogging by way of Blogger, as many LJ emigrants have. And so, I’ve recently drafted a few posts and experienced that glorious rush of pressing that “publish” button!

Blogger feels like home, but, I want more. I want to not only write and press “publish,” I want to recreate that wonderful fertile and inspiring LJ writer’s community I was a part of in the past. In hopes of recreating such a community, I searched for blogs to follow. As I started to poke around Blogger, however, I realized that bloggers don’t do what I do anymore; they don’t do what LJ-ers in the past have done. I realized that my way of blogging has become a dinosaur.

How is my writing Paleolithic? Well, I still write (demonstrably) long, (Footnote 4) autobiographical incident essays. (Footnote 1) My posts are essentially dramatized diary entries, and I simply adore this form of writing. Firstly, this type of blogging creates a record of my life – something to leave behind for others and to jog my memory when I get older. (Footnote 3) Such posts offer me the glorious a chance to turn my lil’ ole life into something cinematic or dare I say literary. I also hope, of course, that essay entries are entertaining to readers.

However, as I’m exploring this new LJ-free blogosphere and trying to find like-minded essayists, I’ve discovered you can’t go back home. Blogs today!? I shake my fist in your general direction! My biggest gripes are: 1) That a majority of today’s blog posts are pictorial posts 2) The proliferation of infernal “themes” and 3) Shameless content regurgitation. So much has changed in the modern blogosphere that I can only detect the faintest specter of my beloved LJ. 

First of all, it seems the writing aspect of blogging is gone, lost, disappeared, dead. Blogging has, heartbreakingly enough, morphed from writing into photo sharing. If I wanted to look at an online photo set of an obviously staged morning starring you and your spawn making and eating waffles, I’d do just that. But I really don’t want to do that. If you must stage a waffle-eating tableaux with your spawn, I’d rather read about your morning instead. I’d like to experience it through the magic of your words and discover what was going on in that pneumatic head of yours. I’d delight in a post explaining how you got irritated because Little Andrew is simply trash at timing those waffles. His waffles are burnt and misshapen; they came out like shit, and you have to force a blog-worthy smile as you shove these shards of burnt dough ino your pie-hole. To add to the crap morning, friggen Tommy then spilled the entire bottle of real Vermont Maple syrup all over the cat. Poor Willow spent the day licking off the sticky goo from her fur and directing the dirtiest look a kitten can muster at asshole Andrew. See - that there’s golden fodder for an essay! But, instead, all I see are endless, staged, over-wrought close-up pictures of Andrew holding miraculously non-burnt (ie: your) waffles, perfectly posed in your overpriced kitchen. Le sigh.  

I must add that I, of course, appreciate photography, and especially creative and evocative photographs captured through a photographer’s keen eye. I even appreciate when a blog features one or two photos to supplement a written blog post. However, a post composed merely of interminable pictures of the same crap is not worth my time. Blogs are stuffed with endless pictures of crafts or food or your kids blowing bubbles or freaking fashion selfies. Modern bloggers can’t even post a recipe without photographing the damned eggs and bottle of vanilla they used to make their damned cookies. Isn’t that type of photo-vomit what Instagram, Tumblr and Facebook exists for? As a venue to post your endless, crappily edited and curated (Footnote 2) photos?

In conclusion, Blogging used to be a writer’s medium - for sharing thoughts, words and stories. And I loved it. But, the essence of Blogging has changed since the early to mid-aughts, and I mourn the death of what once was. When cruising the disappointing Blogger, I long to be enveloped by words. MOAR WORDS. Essays! Life. Words.

Apparently my thoughts on this matter are, um, prolific. I’m going to break up this post into two, maybe three, parts because, hot damn, do I still have a lot more to say. Stay tuned for Part II shortly.

Footnotes:

(1) Screw writing fiction, you know? That shit’s hard. How the hell does one make dialogue sound convincing and not corny? Impossible! I’ll stick to IRL-based writing, thanks.

(2) Please people - be kind to your audience. Curate your muther-trucking photos!! Don’t post every snapshot you took of Tommy wearing your mom’s brazier. Repetition diminishes effectiveness.

(3) Sweet Baby Louise, have you seen Iris starring Judi Dench? It’s a beautiful film about the cutest old writer couple, who may have existed in real life. Dench plays Iris. Iris is worldly and vivacious and creative and intelligent and has had the most beautiful, long, yet complicated, relationship with her devoted husband. They live in a writer’s house and live the writer’s life. And then Iris develops Alzheimer’s and I can’t. Iris can’t remember words or the novels she’s written or where she lives or her husband. It’s gut-wrenching – probably the saddest move I’ve ever seen in my entire life. And of course, Iris gave me a phobia, and I’m now petrified about losing my memories whether it be through Alzheimer’s, or a car accident, or whatever. If you don’t have your memories, you don’t have your life. Poof – it’s gone. You’re gone. You have nothing and you cease to exist. So, Iris is the reason I must document everything and may or may not attach ridiculous sentiments and meaning to physical objects, ticket stubs, programs, brochures, wrappers, photos, gifts, etc. 

(4) Hey guess what, I know my posts are wayyy to long, and I. Do. Not. Care. I don't! This venue allows me to get out every thought, every angle of every thought, I've ever had about a topic and I revel in that opportunity. Like I said, I feel heard here, and I don't care if my writing isn't commercial; it's too damn long-winded, but I accept that. If I were writing commercially, you can be damned sure I'd never write such lengthy posts, but this ain't no media company - thank heavens.