I’ve been thinking a lot about blogging lately. Mostly because I’ve sucked at posting anything for the last few months. It doesn’t have anything do with the anguish of Writer’s Block. I just stopped. The key wound down in my back. My hiatus was voluntary, prolonged, and left me feeling disjointed and crabby. While I was talking about writing but never getting around to it, I learned something about myself: writing is my doppelgänger. If I’m going to get up in the morning I might as well write something. That’s pretty much it.
If you saw the film, Contagion, you might remember Eliot Gould (yes, I know you thought he was dead) and this line:
“Blogging! Blogging isn’t writing. It’s graffiti with punctuation.”
I beg to differ.
A trillion words of wordiness have been written about how blogging:
(a) has made the creative process accessible and global,
(b) just might be the Death Star of writing as an art form,
(c) is probably what killed newspapers (not corporate greed and lousy speculative commentary that whores around as journalism), and
(d) is an opportunity for any narcissist with access to a computer to bloviate on the favored topic du jour.
I beg to differ. OK, maybe not entirely.
When I went to Journalism School there was no blogging. Hell, there were no computers either. If you wanted to get creative you were probably going to be writing Saturday features or be the queen of the recipe column until you either got the pink slip or you died of old age at the Olivetti.
Here’s the point: blogs can transcend corporate greed, family gossip, communal whining, and be a forum for some smashing good writing. I think Indie Albany does that. The smashing good writing part, not the rest of it.
Here’s the best part: Happy Birthday Indie Albany. And many more.
As for Will Shakespeare, the answer to your question is yes.