Why do people blog?
Is it to lose those extra pounds | live a better life | figure out your lackluster/depressive/ borderline-laughable love life | eat better | run faster | cackle harder | feel better about and/or escape your current life situation?
All of those options are peachy and great, but none of them feel right. I asked a close friend of mine, this morning, actually, about what the point of blogging really was or what was it supposed to achieve. Her answer?
“Ummmm to be honest I’m not sure why people blog. I always just assumed they needed an outlet and wanted to reach out to a population that maybe feels the same way or can relate to you in some way.” She’s not wrong, either, and I could officially add this to the multitude of logical reasons as to why someone would blog.
As a writer of fiction, blogging falls into a category that felt untouchable; it felt taboo, rare, even, and entirely all too delicate to hold in my undoubtedly clumsy hands. Blogs need to do something for people or accomplish something. What would I even blog about? That fucker, right there, is what stopped me each time and almost stopped me this time.
It was during this conversation with her, and the internal one churning around in this pensive brain of mine, that the distance between cosmic, unobtainable blog-o-sphere and the beginning of blog-hood was close enough that I could literally spit on it. Let me tell you, I can’t spit for shit.
One simple thought shortened that distance: Blogging is selfish.
I could probably place a finger on what you’re thinking. How is saving innumerable amounts of strangers selfish?!
Let us, you and I, reader, retrograde a little.
Why does any writer of any genre/mode/material write what they write? Is it to fulfill their inadvertent destiny of saving millions by their written words of wisdom? Maybe this is true.But, honey. Really? We writers slave away on our journals/laptops in the closest cafe to help ourselves. This is probably a poorly chosen analogy, but why do drug addicts do what they do? To fix themselves. Granted, writing doesn’t physically harm the one body you are granted, but it surely dishes out the same high; my eyes get red and bothered, I space out at random inanimate objects, there’s the common twitch here and there that will come up. And then when I don’t write for a while, I go into bitter withdraws of intense anxiety and depression.
What’s the point of this blog, then, and what is it supposed to fix? You might be wanting to ask me this question.
I’m a twenty-something gay male, currently jobless, with so much extra time to sit in my inherited childhood home that’s currently for sale that I’m absolutely destroying my nail beds. That doesn’t even scratch the surface of my quarter-life crises. Don’t worry, I will delve into my problems as you, the likewise lost reader, gaily read along with me. And hopefully as I selfishly figure out my shit via this blog, it will inadvertently guide you through yours.
Because we all deserve to be selfish now and then.