Blogging is talking to myself. It’s a note in a bottle thrown out to sea. It’s taping a page of copy to my monitor. With no reviews, no Pulitzers, no talk show circuit, I have no audience. More people would read what I have here if I taped it up to the inside of a stall door in the bathroom. What is the sense of this blog? Now that I have seen any number of other blogs, their purpose seems even more elusive to me than before. Why would anyone I don’t know care about my day-to-day life, especially if it doesn’t include blood-letting, sex or a car chases? Most people’s lives, including my own, are shockingly boring and repetitive—lives of quiet desperation, as Thoreau observed. And the blogs I have read only confirm this. Religion addicts who can’t stop themselves from writing “Jesus” into every paragraph; lonely students who’s lives cycle from bedroom to classroom to party room and back again; advice givers with their affirming maxims and “can do” cheeriness, bored housewives, geeks in heat, and insufferable political hacks, like me…William Greider wanna-bes who, without government sources or a D.C. address, have very little, if anything, original to say. What we have in blogs is an electronic vanity press where you publish your masterful gems of literary genius for you and your entire family to enjoy. In my case, I don’t think even my next-of-kin have bothered.
At least it’s free. For now.