Caving In

Okay, I’m finally doing it.  I gave in.  I caved to the world of “blog.”

I say “caved” because I’m doing it with a touch of reluctance.  You would think that as a writer the concept of having an ever-readable notepad devoted to my personal thoughts and opinions would have appealed to me upon first learning of their existence.  Honestly, though, the idea has never interested me much.

It used to be that only the truly talented, unique, and deep-thinking were able to get their work out to a vast public eye.  There were newspapers for esteemed journalists, non-fiction for scholarly researchers, novels for captivating story-tellers, and literature for those who with profundity and excellence of expression create something that endures the test of time and their audience’s changing interests .  Diaries (essentially what blogs are) were the little red books under the beds of prepubescent girls with a crush on so-and-so and a dislike of mean Mrs. Schoolteacher.  Its contents, while full of hopes, fears, and tales of intrigue and adventure, were private:  heaven forbid that anyone other than its author peer into its pages!

Juvenile. Secret.

Then the Internet happens.  Suddenly, twits are Twittering every waking thought, the intimate details of anyone with a face are an open book on Facebook, and it is hard to come by someone who has not heard of the phonological disaster blog.   Here, there is no editor, no painstaking publishing process (just a click!), and, at times, no filter.  Any idea or event, however unremarkable, can be textualized.  Organization and clarity?  Unnecessary.  Grammar and punctuation?  Outdated.  Knowledge and skill?  Irrelevant.

Before I’m misunderstood, I’m not saying there isn’t anything worth reading anymore.  I’m not decrying the Internet as the culprit for a complete loss of linguistic integrity, as some have imagined it to be, either.  My question is that, with a torrent of information, most of it useless, already being pounded through our senses, do I really want to add to the noise?  Will my contributions be seen as puerile?  Insignificant?  Will they even be seen?  As Flyleaf asked, “It’s time we cannot buy//Was this worth the time to write?//Was this worth the time to write?”

Then there is the question of whether I really want my thoughts to be available.  Writing is my easiest, most natural, and probably most used form of communication.  Still, nearly all of it is kept to myself (does that disqualify it as communication?).  A lot of that has to do with a lack of contact with fellow word-lovers, I’m sure, but it’s also that I’m rather reserved when it comes to sharing my innards.

In the midst of my diffidence, however, there is also the fact that my head is always whirring with ideas for poetry and topics I would love to dissect through writing.  I usually use a sketchpad (I can’t do notepads.  The lines are distracting.) to do all of that, but it’s becoming full, cumbersome, and difficult to navigate through.  Don’t get me wrong, I won’t stop using it entirely.  There is just something satisfying about the sound of graphite scratching the paper that a clicking keyboard has never achieved in me.  But this will be another, easy-edit place for the shareable.  Perhaps a point of contact for the like-minded, as well.

So, here I am with all of my inexperience and uncertainty, and if someone finds what I let through the cracks to be merely adding to the noise, they can click elsewhere.  Even if nothing comes of it but a place to gather myself, I think this will indeed be worth the time to write.

And let’s hope worth the time to read.

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