The reasons I stopped blogging regularly still hold. I become a stats junkie, wanting, needing to know how many visits I had in the day, what they might have looked at, resenting the one tower (78 hits in a day, in case you also need to know!) and wondering, agonising over what I could write about to relive that glory. Pathetic isn’t it?
As if I really needed a new time-consuming obsession at this juncture in my life!
I’m not very inspired this morning, so I’ll use a brilliant little speech made by the husband of an obsessive blogger, who is one of House’s patients:
This thing that you do. It’s not about connection anymore. It’s about an audience. It’s a performance, and you’ve got one eye on the number of hits. You’ve turned our lives into their entertainment… You’re smart. You’re fun to read. It’s okay. But don’t give them this.
It’s also disgusting, this transformation into some kind of small-scale (micro-scale, really) ratings-obsessed broadcaster willing, eager to make a public spectacle out of my most personal experiences. Not that there’s anything wrong with connecting the inner with the outer, but not for a stats graph, fer God’s sake!!!!
But what then? Why did I resume blogging?
As self-defence, as notes-to-self, as something richer, more enriching than bookmarking good reads or sharing them on my Facebook wall. As an exploration of things that bug me and that I need clarity on. As an aid to reflection, in the hope that I manage to go beyond the stagnant pools I’ve been wading in – on so many topics. And stats just don’t cut it. I need comments and I need to read and re-read and write and also, to re-write. So I guess I’ll try to do that from now on instead!
Displaced 