Death of Blogging
Blogging is like SO 2006, don’t you think?
As a fad, it’s as over as goldfish swallowing or streaking; anyone who thinks they’re being hip by writing a blog probably also believes that Members Only jackets and checkered Van’s skate shoes represent the height of current fashion.
I’m talking about me, of course (no surprise there, this IS my blog, duh.)
And yet in spite of the cornball reality of writing and posting to an internet weblog (the name itself is a cry for help, circa mid-aught decade of the 21st century), I continue to pour out my 327 words nearly every day.
Why?
Do I really believe I’m making any difference to anyone other than myself at all? Or is there really some upper limit to the reach of my narcissism?
At this point, writing a blog is kind of like being a country music fan, or a heavy metalhead, or somebody who’s never given up their love for Beanie Babies. There will always be a core group of fanatics who continue to ply their obsession with the form, but just as, say, fans of hairdo guitar bands had their moment in the sun around 1983, bloggers will forever recall the heady days of several years ago when it seemed for a moment that everyone who mattered was posting their personal reflections to the web and that this represented a cultural change which would propel the human race into a new era of literary freedom and creative self-expression never seen before (except maybe in Florence during the Renaissance or San Francisco around June of 1967.)
Additionally, for me, writing these pieces provides the same sort of satisfaction that letter-writing did for Ernest Hemingway who said of it something like, “it’s a great way to feel like you’re working without really doing any work.”
All I have to do is post my daily piece and I’m vindicated, even when the work is as moribund as this.
As a fad, it’s as over as goldfish swallowing or streaking; anyone who thinks they’re being hip by writing a blog probably also believes that Members Only jackets and checkered Van’s skate shoes represent the height of current fashion.
I’m talking about me, of course (no surprise there, this IS my blog, duh.)
And yet in spite of the cornball reality of writing and posting to an internet weblog (the name itself is a cry for help, circa mid-aught decade of the 21st century), I continue to pour out my 327 words nearly every day.
Why?
Do I really believe I’m making any difference to anyone other than myself at all? Or is there really some upper limit to the reach of my narcissism?
At this point, writing a blog is kind of like being a country music fan, or a heavy metalhead, or somebody who’s never given up their love for Beanie Babies. There will always be a core group of fanatics who continue to ply their obsession with the form, but just as, say, fans of hairdo guitar bands had their moment in the sun around 1983, bloggers will forever recall the heady days of several years ago when it seemed for a moment that everyone who mattered was posting their personal reflections to the web and that this represented a cultural change which would propel the human race into a new era of literary freedom and creative self-expression never seen before (except maybe in Florence during the Renaissance or San Francisco around June of 1967.)
Additionally, for me, writing these pieces provides the same sort of satisfaction that letter-writing did for Ernest Hemingway who said of it something like, “it’s a great way to feel like you’re working without really doing any work.”
All I have to do is post my daily piece and I’m vindicated, even when the work is as moribund as this.
posted by Professor Dave at 4:04 PM
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