Brian. Brian can't read my blog -- not that he can't,
He thinks blogging is pretty idiotic and is embarrassed for people who reveal themselves out loud using this particular format. Granted, there is a certain amount of psychic trauma waiting to happen -- someone reaching out with intimate details of their lives and someone ready squash them for it. but I think the shame belongs on the squashers and not the sharers.
I do remember being in my twenties and having soul bearing be like, "what the hell are doing?" type stuff. I was just realizing that I didn't know everything and was in fact, a bit wrong about a whole bunch of stuff -- it was embarrassing to think about much less admit. Now if I get an ear, I'll tell it in the check out line (okay, that's kind of a problem -- my sister calls it "diarrhea of the mouth", when your talking mouth overrides your brain's pleads for you to, "shut up talking to strangers about that shit.")
Mom's do it to each other all the time. Many of us are so starved for adult conversation that our private musings just spill out if someone strikes a neuropathway to the adult section of our brain. There is a lot that goes without saying between mother's --that kind of spewing is pretty much understood. Very few respond with proper mortification at the inappropriateness or idiocy of those moments. I find it very reassuring when someone spews my way, "whew! Not the only one, check".
I think Brian has some of it right -- he is fairly dead on about things most of the time. While I do read some things and wince (my own included), I gotta land on the side of personal expression in blog form as a fantastic idea -- the cat's ass. I hate that I have to say and/or type the words blog, blogging and blogger --perhaps it's the teenage punk in me that needs to keep distance from all things lingo. But other than that, I love it.
My sister was a blogging pioneer of sorts. She should be filthy stinking rich. Between her and her geek husband, they practically invented the internet and should have been .com millionaires, at least.
One of her web sites is the now defunct, Litweb. It was place for writers to gather and journal, write poems, stories, collaborate, and talk about all things literature. People wrote to her and talked about how much the journaling aspect meant to them. Some say journal, others say blog --I say, "filthy stinking rich and buying me a house".
I don't care if Oprah's people used your website as a model. I don't care about web awards for all of your award winning websites you or the geek created. Okay, I care -- that's really cool about Oprah's people -- but where are the millions? Why aren't you on
Oprah, talking about how you bought your mom, dad, and your sisters, houses with pools.
I love having a creative outlet to share. And now I don't have to dink around with writing my memoirs -- Simon and Schuster, internet...it's all the same to me --except for that whole money thing again. When I finish an essay or random thought and hit that orange bar -- green print soon appears and it says, "files published
When my kids hit the therapy years, I can just go to file and hit print -- "Here, this might help."
And then there is that ever nagging thought of a mother "what if I died and my kids had to be raised by their father?" Here I am in print. It's not all of me, it's a heavily edited version of me, but I think they would get the idea -- they could know a little of their mother this way. I love the death cheating aspect of publication -- of the written word in general. My private journals are different from my blogging stuff. If you think I'm wordy here -- I'm downright concise compared to the ramblings in my journals.
It's not about narcissism, it's about; fear not -- be who you are (unless you are a selfish soul sucking jerk -- in that case, authenticity is over rated).