My blog is in the midst of a mid-life crisis. Either that or it’s all pimpley and bratty at 15, I’m not sure. Maybe blog-time is like cat time, each year the equivalent of 7 which would put my blog at about 20, i.e. all my blog is interested in is getting wasted and having sex. My blog is a drunken slut.
Which explains why I’ve been feeling so goddamn unmotivated lately. Uninspired, tired, craving a greasy breakfast of bacon and cheesy eggs to soak up some of last night. Where am I going with this? No, really, where are we all going? I guess what I need is a guidance counselor because lately I’ve been wondering about the future of blogging.
The past few months have seen the demise of a few of my favorite blogs. Others have taken hiatuses (hiatii?). I, for one, have been having trouble writing, the muse of good content like a floater in the corner of my eye that is not really there. Jesus. See? That whole muse/floater shit? Totally unacceptable and yet it stays for lack of anything else at all.
Once upon a time blogs cracked open the voices of a million different people. Suddenly we could all be heard. This is what I had for lunch. What I thought of that movie. Here is a pic of that dress I really really want. And we listened and we read and we wrote, one big happy family of nothing and everything and then some.
Gradually “real” writers began to listen. Journalism, news media, fiction—it all became a little bloggy itself, the listen-to-me-ness of a world gone wide web. Enter Twitter, the evolution of the 140 character story. We twatted. We facebooked, tumbled, 4 squared and stumbled. I am here! Look at me! The party grew, stats increased. Some got book deals, bad photos of kids taken with old cameras now popping up in Google image searches. No, me! Over here! The party suddenly so loud it became hard to hear.
And what of the blogs? In a world where thousands of status updates pop up by the second, are blogs becoming the guy you don’t want to get stuck talking to at the party? You know, the one whose stories are too long, boring? Who the fuck cares what he had for lunch anyway?
I started this blog because I wanted to write. Well look at that—I’m writing. The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t wonder what comes next. Does the lazy dog ever get up? Chase the fox? Nip him on the hind leg and shake him violently? What do you think of the future of blogging? Of content, of platform, of me?
*I swear I’m not fishing for compliments. I just want to know where this is going. This everything. Also? That pic of the brain & the Sistine Chapel freaks me the eff out in a good way, and yes, there is a very good way to be freaked out.