On Not Blogging
Preface: This entry is way too long for any reasonable blog enthusiast to read. I take comfort and pride in that.
It has been a long time now that I have allowed myself to stay stuck in a self imposed predicament--that of deciding not to write a weblog and yet wanting to write about not writing, then opting not to in order to avoid contradiction.
For nearly 4 years I wrote regularly, often daily, in my two Livejournal weblogs, from late 2002 to mid 2006. I had free time to spend on writing then. I was single and had a job that made it easy to do personal work during down time--which was most of the time. I was coming out of a dark depressing time in my life, moving forward into a creatively prolific one, broadening my interests from visual art to written forms, and using the internet as a creative medium itself.
But life moves in cycles, and it was apparent that I was having a convergence of endings occurring in 2005. The early 2000s were characterized by enthusiastic social activity which waned by mid-decade. Friends began to settle down and get married, some moved away. We were all getting older and had less energy to do the things that twenty-somethings did. I was feeling increasingly isolated, and in most cases choose to isolate myself in order to reflect on and examine the changes I was going through. The company I was working for was not doing well (which was apparent since I was able to spend more than half my time on personal writing and socializing on the internet), this came to a head when I was laid-off in September of 2005. I turned 35 that October. I had become disillusioned with my interest in self-publishing zines. I needed a new creative outlet, a new medium, but struggled to find interest in one. Like I said, it was clearly an ending to a chapter in my life, and so I moved on. In November of I moved out of Los Angeles after 11 years there, back to my home town of San Francisco; quite literally starting over.
I will bypass a biographical account of the last year and a half in order to return to the subject of writing about not writing. I stopped writing a weblog and greatly decreased my social internet activity in general because of the answers I came up with when I asked myself, Why? Why do I do it? What do I get out of it? What do I want from it and what happens to me when I don't get that?
I was not happy with the answers to my questions. I blogged for the attention. Specifically: appreciation, praise, positive response in any form. I could write in a bound paper notebook as I had done throughout my teenage years (before I ever had access to computers) if I simply loved to write and wanted to document my life. But blogging is about being seen, heard, read by strangers, friends and those who fall in between--Internet Friends--and receiving instant pats on the back or slaps in the face for it. Not everyone who reads your blog is a friend or even friendly. Some are mean, obtuse, or just plain annoying. Is it worth it hearing from these people? I questioned how much connecting with people really mattered to me when I'd want 99% of them to be silent. Sometimes I would get no response at all, and that was almost worse because again, I wanted to be read, I wanted to connect, but you can't know how or with whom you are connecting when they do not comment back. One might at least take comfort in believing (indeed with anxious faith) that your real friends read your blog and that you "got it out there." What does it mean and what good is it really to get your words out on the internet? Blogging became an emotional gamble to me that would occasionally pay off--as I felt I had learned the game pretty well--but ultimately the house odds are always against you. More often than not you leave the game empty-handed. The house doesn't mind, there are a billion more suckers out there throwing down as if they were high-rolling for the New York Times. As blogging gives the benefit of a public voice to millions, many of those voices affect self-importance--as I myself had become guilty of on occasion.
I did not want to become that. I did not want to write for these reasons. I did not want to care this much about attention of this kind. I had inadvertently trained myself to write for the reward of the volume and quality of responses I got, and that found its way into my motivation and intentions for writing, which ruined it for me. Whether I was "connecting" with anyone was really an open semantic and philosophical debate. What if I had all the connection I needed with people in my real life? Maybe I even needed a better connection with myself. I believe that is what happened. I moved back to San Francisco; where I grew up, where my family lives. I began a relationship with my present girlfriend, collected a few good people who I count as true friends, found a good satisfying job and a good place to live near my family. I no longer had the need to socialize on the internet--even though I occasionally do to this day, I do not need it and rarely want it. I no longer have the time or energy for it. It's something I do when I'm very bored or very tired. Something I attribute to age and a bit of wisdom: the most depressing thing I can do is spend my time on something that isn't important to me on a deep and personal level. After work is done, time is not money--time is life, which is all you have. I am truly damned if I am spending that time absorbing the cacophonous noise of the social internet, a smorgasbord of judgment and egotism as entertainment.
And now, full circle, here I am facing the irony that I couldn't let go of: I feel the need to blog about not blogging. There is still truth to the idea that I just want to get this out there, out of my head, but also that I would like to be read and appreciated. Now though, I am ready to post and then let it go. Short of disabling the ability to respond, I do not need or want a response, but I'll accept what comes or what does not. In a way, it is a great lesson to learn and a great discipline to practice, to continue to risk the consequences of exposure. A sort of Zen approach to blogging is what I intend:
Write from your gut, with your heart, and expect nothing for it; endeavor to achieve true communication; accept and exchange but give no value to praise or criticism--either holds as much consequence as you allow.
What I write is not important. What I post is not something anyone should read. It exists as a product of my living, no more or less.
A grain of sand hidden deep in the earth, undifferentiated from its surrounding, another on the surface that it might find its way into the hair of a child playing on the beach; both are profoundly equal, each meaning nothing more than what it is.
It has been a long time now that I have allowed myself to stay stuck in a self imposed predicament--that of deciding not to write a weblog and yet wanting to write about not writing, then opting not to in order to avoid contradiction.
For nearly 4 years I wrote regularly, often daily, in my two Livejournal weblogs, from late 2002 to mid 2006. I had free time to spend on writing then. I was single and had a job that made it easy to do personal work during down time--which was most of the time. I was coming out of a dark depressing time in my life, moving forward into a creatively prolific one, broadening my interests from visual art to written forms, and using the internet as a creative medium itself.
But life moves in cycles, and it was apparent that I was having a convergence of endings occurring in 2005. The early 2000s were characterized by enthusiastic social activity which waned by mid-decade. Friends began to settle down and get married, some moved away. We were all getting older and had less energy to do the things that twenty-somethings did. I was feeling increasingly isolated, and in most cases choose to isolate myself in order to reflect on and examine the changes I was going through. The company I was working for was not doing well (which was apparent since I was able to spend more than half my time on personal writing and socializing on the internet), this came to a head when I was laid-off in September of 2005. I turned 35 that October. I had become disillusioned with my interest in self-publishing zines. I needed a new creative outlet, a new medium, but struggled to find interest in one. Like I said, it was clearly an ending to a chapter in my life, and so I moved on. In November of I moved out of Los Angeles after 11 years there, back to my home town of San Francisco; quite literally starting over.
I will bypass a biographical account of the last year and a half in order to return to the subject of writing about not writing. I stopped writing a weblog and greatly decreased my social internet activity in general because of the answers I came up with when I asked myself, Why? Why do I do it? What do I get out of it? What do I want from it and what happens to me when I don't get that?
I was not happy with the answers to my questions. I blogged for the attention. Specifically: appreciation, praise, positive response in any form. I could write in a bound paper notebook as I had done throughout my teenage years (before I ever had access to computers) if I simply loved to write and wanted to document my life. But blogging is about being seen, heard, read by strangers, friends and those who fall in between--Internet Friends--and receiving instant pats on the back or slaps in the face for it. Not everyone who reads your blog is a friend or even friendly. Some are mean, obtuse, or just plain annoying. Is it worth it hearing from these people? I questioned how much connecting with people really mattered to me when I'd want 99% of them to be silent. Sometimes I would get no response at all, and that was almost worse because again, I wanted to be read, I wanted to connect, but you can't know how or with whom you are connecting when they do not comment back. One might at least take comfort in believing (indeed with anxious faith) that your real friends read your blog and that you "got it out there." What does it mean and what good is it really to get your words out on the internet? Blogging became an emotional gamble to me that would occasionally pay off--as I felt I had learned the game pretty well--but ultimately the house odds are always against you. More often than not you leave the game empty-handed. The house doesn't mind, there are a billion more suckers out there throwing down as if they were high-rolling for the New York Times. As blogging gives the benefit of a public voice to millions, many of those voices affect self-importance--as I myself had become guilty of on occasion.
I did not want to become that. I did not want to write for these reasons. I did not want to care this much about attention of this kind. I had inadvertently trained myself to write for the reward of the volume and quality of responses I got, and that found its way into my motivation and intentions for writing, which ruined it for me. Whether I was "connecting" with anyone was really an open semantic and philosophical debate. What if I had all the connection I needed with people in my real life? Maybe I even needed a better connection with myself. I believe that is what happened. I moved back to San Francisco; where I grew up, where my family lives. I began a relationship with my present girlfriend, collected a few good people who I count as true friends, found a good satisfying job and a good place to live near my family. I no longer had the need to socialize on the internet--even though I occasionally do to this day, I do not need it and rarely want it. I no longer have the time or energy for it. It's something I do when I'm very bored or very tired. Something I attribute to age and a bit of wisdom: the most depressing thing I can do is spend my time on something that isn't important to me on a deep and personal level. After work is done, time is not money--time is life, which is all you have. I am truly damned if I am spending that time absorbing the cacophonous noise of the social internet, a smorgasbord of judgment and egotism as entertainment.
And now, full circle, here I am facing the irony that I couldn't let go of: I feel the need to blog about not blogging. There is still truth to the idea that I just want to get this out there, out of my head, but also that I would like to be read and appreciated. Now though, I am ready to post and then let it go. Short of disabling the ability to respond, I do not need or want a response, but I'll accept what comes or what does not. In a way, it is a great lesson to learn and a great discipline to practice, to continue to risk the consequences of exposure. A sort of Zen approach to blogging is what I intend:
Write from your gut, with your heart, and expect nothing for it; endeavor to achieve true communication; accept and exchange but give no value to praise or criticism--either holds as much consequence as you allow.
What I write is not important. What I post is not something anyone should read. It exists as a product of my living, no more or less.
A grain of sand hidden deep in the earth, undifferentiated from its surrounding, another on the surface that it might find its way into the hair of a child playing on the beach; both are profoundly equal, each meaning nothing more than what it is.