Being a blogger, I’m a walking self-conscious mess. I consider myself a writer. It’s something I love and something I do every day. But then there’s that little, slippery, evil voice on my left shoulder that tells me I’m not rrreeeallly a writer. I mean, c’mon, right? I’m a blogger.
Was Hemingway a blogger? Toole? Wolfe? No.
Now, there are writers who HAVE blogs. But really, they’re writers, in the literary sense. Not bloggers. Right?
(Do you ever have this internal dialogue?)
What if, in a hundred years, we’ll see blogging as its own literary genre?
The kind of blogging I’m talking about here are the transmissions that show the micro movement of one’s life. Our thoughts. Transitions. Growth. Opinions. Fears. Workflow.
Maybe we’d see that we should have better respected this thing called blogging. Maybe now’s the time to flick that angry little man off of our left shoulder and tell him to pack sand?
Maybe Dickens, if he had the technology available to him — woulda been a blogger. He’d be better able to serialize his stories than he did, for sure.
It seems to me that blogging is often seen as a means to an end. We blog to get a book deal. We blog to grow an audience. We blog to sell a product. We blog to do this or that…
But what if we just blogged to… blog?