On Blogging

And why I’m mostly not doing it anymore.

I feel like a blog should be interesting, it should contain articles, thought-provoking essays, and in my case, the occasional bits of fiction, short stories, what have you. But this blog has really become a place that isn’t very productive for me at all. Around the beginning of the year I attempted to move the blog over to Blogger, both because WordPress charges outrageously if you want to do something like, oh I don’t know, change the font color (that’ll be $99 please), and because I wanted a fresh start. But I failed over there too. In fact, my new blog became even worse because rather than writing blog posts I was just copying and pasting stuff from my Facebook statuses and conversations I’d had with people online. They were things that were meaningful to me, but one thing was becoming clear: I was using my blog as a way to bitch about my life.

Now, bitching about your life isn’t something that I feel I should be prevented from doing if I so choose. Reflecting on my life is probably a better way to put it, but you get the idea. At any rate, I’ve posted things here that I feel really are blog-worthy: essays about campaigns hosted by my favorite musicians, outlined discographies of albums and B-Sides from musicians I follow, reviews of books and video games. But when I started to just post every random bit of poetry or every mildly interesting Facebook status update on my blog, I started to feel like I was not only accomplishing nothing, but I was also being a lazy writer, and frankly, being a whiny brat.

It’s different if you post stuff like that in a journal, even an online journal, because then you have a right. It’s your journal. You journal about stuff. You post your thoughts. But on a blog, I feel like I need to be posting something more substantial, and for the last five years, I’ve constantly thought to myself “Hey this is interesting, I should blog about this when I get home!” and I never do, because it’s not all that interesting from a blog standpoint, it’s just interesting from a journal standpoint.

Maybe I’m splitting hairs here, but I’ve decided it’s time for me to go hang out in another corner of the internet and chronicle my thoughts. No one is leaving me nasty comments here or anything or calling me a narcissist, I’m just feeling like one. I want to share everything, but not on a blog, I want to do it in a more private journal that is something that’s just about me.

I’m not going to never post anything here again. When I write something new, I’ll probably put it up here. Short stories, stories about my life that will hopefully work into some kind of autobiographical story, that stuff will probably end up here, because that doesn’t exactly feel appropriate for a journal. But for now, I think I’m done with blogging.

On a completely unrelated note, yesterday I listened to an interview with Diana Gabaldon and when the interviewer asked how she felt about the page-to-screen adaptation of a scene in which a man beats his wife, she laughed defensively and asserted that he wasn’t BEATING her, he was doing his husbandly duty by punishing her and teaching her right from wrong for putting them in danger by beating her bare ass with his sword belt, and that of course she wasn’t going to like it, but she had to learn, and he outweighed her by a few hundred pounds so of course he would win. She even went on to add that there would be some “knee-jerk feminism,” but that ultimately people of her generation would see the humor in the scene. I’ve never heard anything more disgusting and appalling in my life! I think that the reason authors incorporate such rampant violent physical and sexual abuse into their books is because either they’re so privileged and have never experienced abuse before that they don’t understand the difference between kink and abuse, so they put abuse into their books thinking they’re being kinky, or they’ve already been so abused that they can’t tell the different between kink and abuse and they put the abuse into their books thinking they’re being kinky because they don’t know the difference. Either way I was disgusted, and any chance that I was ever going to read the Outlander series went right out the window.

See, if I had devoted several more paragraphs to deconstructing that and writing out a thoughtful criticism of what a self-loathing moron Diana Gabaldon was being when she said that, that would constitute a good blog post. But, honestly, I don’t always want to do that. Sometimes I just want to say it and be done with it, and I can’t here because I feel that I need to dedicate enough time to writing a full-on article.

And so, my work here is done. I’m off to go to another corner of the internet where I can journal in peace about me, my life, my struggles, my thoughts, my problems, my hopes, my dreams, my loves. Off I go, and on I go.


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