Blogging must be an art similar to sculpting, portraiture, and playwriting because I stink at the first two, and I have no desire to pursue either. I feel the same about blogging. It does not come naturally; it proceeds in fits and starts, and I’m never sure what the point of it is.
Blogging is a slog.
Is blogging similar to keeping a diary or journaling? I never did either of those things, not on a regular basis; neither interested me. I did try a few diary entries when I was a pre-teen. That experiment lasted a few days. I tried keeping a journal once or twice, but making entries was something that just kept slipping my mind.
Why am I so resistant to the form – diary, journal, blog? A diary and a journal both seem to me private dialogues; ones you have only with yourself. You share what passes for your deepest thoughts and feelings and out of that comes purpose, resolution, or resolve. My first objection – the effort seems self-indulgent and solipsistic. My second objection - I can never decide whether I am writing for me, or for an audience, and, if I am writing for an audience, then it seems to me I’m not being authentic or true – I’m performing, putting on a show, trying to please someone else.
Blogging seems to call for introspection and self-analysis, but what I write seems self-absorbed rather than analytical, and it resembles introspection less than it does tedious naval-gazing. And when I begin a blog post I know that I’ll be publishing my broodings online for the world to see. If I begin writing the blog post knowing that others will read and critique what I publish, am I performing? Am I editing my thoughts and myself to be more palatable, more pleasing, and more marketable?
I’ve concluded a few things:
The content may not be all that I could hope for, but the workout was beneficial.