I was shocked the other day to check a friend’s blog, only to discover that it had utterly vanished. When I emailed him to ask what happened, his reply gave me pause. “It was just pointless,” he wrote me. “I didn’t really have anything to say on it, so…” So he shut it down, and turned his focus to other projects. Though saddened to lose this precious contact with him in his northern isolation, I understand his reasons, and look forward to seeing where his creativity will next emerge into public view. (Though I am still not able to bring myself delete from my sidebar the now-orphaned title of his late lamented blog; a dead link, leading nowhere. Soon…)
I know from experience what it is to pull the plug on a much-read personal outlet. The Floating Egg died a lonely death not for lack of readers but because this writer lacked the will to put forth, or to even put down, any completed prose. Nothing was being written that I could publish, so I simply stopped publishing.
Until now. Blogging has allowed me to reawaken as a writer, just as the paper Egg first built my writerly confidence nine years ago. As I have said before, I see this current medium as, if not a smooth continuation of the Egg, then certainly heir to that project. Indeed, speaking broadly, it is an easy parallel to make between the ‘zine explosion of a decade ago and the proliferation of personal blogging today. Electronic publishing is certainly easier and more cost-effective than copying, folding, collating and mailing a substantial paper product.
Do I have any more to say now than I did when I quit? I believe so. I am certainly ready to explore areas of my life experience that were far too fresh and raw for me to even begin to address five years ago. Of course, I have little to no time now to dedicate to writing, but I manage occasionally.
There is a lot of flux in the blogosphere of late, at least in the relatively tiny portion of it that I regularly tour. The Lit6 circle seems to be struggling to remain unbroken, and the blogs of its several members are showing the strain in one way or another. The gifted young poet Side-Car is reeling from a very difficult breakup with one of my friends from high school; his post of 14 February took my breath away with its raw eloquence of pain. Another good friend, Halfway Between, is bravely entering an exhilarating and terrifying vocational crisis. Everywhere I am used to looking, I find things not as they have been.
In an artistic-expressive sense, I have not yet begun to fight. When I find the time and energy, you will find here a writer with words to to be read. I am almost done waiting to begin. I am definitely losing my fear of revealing the passions that my soul can no longer easily contain. It is hard to know when the next life-crisis will strike any of us. I want to be ready as a writer for mine, so I can write my way through it in full view.