In February, I will celebrate (or at least note) my fourth blogging anniversary. I remember when I first learned what a blog was – thanks to my old pal IndyGirl. I was blown away by, and completely foreign to, the concept. A website! Of one’s own! Where you write and put up pictures of things! And people leave you comments! How incredibly novel!
My blogs have gone through many phases and had many names. I’ve written about everything from my family to depression to childhood memories to politics to how completely not-funny I think Dane Cook is to how to make a flan. I’ve posted lots of photos and even more lists. I’ve gone on hiatus about six hundred times.
I think all bloggers, particularly the newer, greener (and I don’t mean eco-friendly) ones, really value and desire love from the blogging community, from the public. I know I did. It feels good to read comments, to see the amount of them climb, to check your stats and see how many people viewed you. Even if these people came to you via Google searches for such things as “crock of shit drawing,” “mutant women photos,” “happens in the bedroom at night,” and a particular favorite – “birthday wishes for older men.”
Someone recently tried to insult me by making a remark about how few people read my blog (as gauged by the amount of comments). It isn’t important who, or what context. What I actually found more insulting was the idea that it would be possible to offend me with this. As if my self-worth hinges on how many admirers I have on the Internet. At one point in my life, I’ll admit, this might have been possible, it might have got me down for maybe a day. But not now. I don’t need veneration from the virtual world to feel good about myself or justify my writing. I know who my friends are, I know who reads my blog, and most of them don’t comment. And I don’t mind.
I’m not selling anything, I’m not trying to show off how mindblowingly awesome I am, I have no one to impress here. I write because I forget. I write because I like writing. I write to keep my writing skills honed, because I hold articulacy in very high regard. If I’m read, that’s great, that’s flattering. If not, I won’t suffer – and neither will my self-esteem.
“Those who write clearly have readers,
those who write obscurely have commentators.”