Here I am, succumbing to the lure of seeing one’s own words in e-print, available to millions. What is it about blogging that is so attractive to so many? Hey, Pepys did it, it must be ok. Or do people hope that their musings will pan out like those of Pratchett’s Edward de Worde with his “Things Written Down” – leading to fame, fortune, and a job in a newspaper?
But what about Anne Frank? Perhaps because she needed an outlet for her situation, her disappointments, her passions. Although our situations were rather different, I kept a journal whilst at university for similar reasons. I was also encouraged, throughout various arty courses I attended, to keep records of inspirational things, and include comments, but that was intended to help my artistic practice. Perhaps my emotional musings did the same thing – helped me get the where I needed or wanted to get to. They didn’t help me achieve anything – I didn’t get any better at my degree course, or get the relationships I was hoping for. But as well as being a place to record things, it was an emotional outlet. It was a personal place, not meant to be read by anyone else. Something I could look back on – a holder of memories*.
But blogging isn’t like that. It is diarising made public. The things we write are intended for others to read, and possibly comment on, while we might still suffer the consequences of our writings. But still we publish our thoughts, and to hell with the consequences.
*During the writing of this article, I re-read some of my journal – most of it is complete drivel & best remain unpublished. Perhaps regular blogging is not for me.