I recently wrote of my obsession with blogging and writing [I put it into poem form too]. It is something that I am thinking a lot about lately. I found that since I began blogging, I started to write more frequently to keep up with the pace of the blogging culture. While the pressure to ‘keep up’ forced me out of laziness and encouraged me to record thoughts that were just gathering dust, there was a negative component to this ‘keep up’ atmosphere.
Let’s face the fact. We do not have brainstorms every day that are worthy publicizing. Maybe some of our thoughts are worth remembering, others might be interesting to close friends, but the majority of what rides our brain waves are absolutely useless and not interesting to the world at large. That is why we have a rug. The rug is that space in our brain under where we discard all useless information to rot for everlasting eternity. It is that same rug, which consequently differentiates between our good materials that we hope to refine and revise until it is ready for the public, and our mundane thoughts, which the community would gain if they were forgotten.
Writing is not a selfish activity. Writing, in its very essence is a vehicle with which we can transmit thoughts and information that is for the public benefit, or the opposite. In the near past and present, for instance, among tens of thousands of others we had Heimlich’s Maneuver, Penicillin, Einstein’s theory, Marx’s Communism, Hitler’s Nazism, Orwell’s vision, Tolstoy’s stories, Rowling’s imagination, Peanuts’ depictions, and Gladwell’s speculations in one form of writing or another. Selfish writing is an oxymoron. That is why we have memory and personal cameras. And most importantly the gift of forgetting unimportant thoughts.
That is until the world of blogging. Blogging and social media destroyed that rug. They obliterated the concept of thinking before talking/writing/photographing. They convince us, that whatever crosses our paths is noteworthy and ‘postworthy.’ Therefore, when scrolling down the Reader and checking out what people write, I wonder. I wonder why it is important to me what someone’s dog ate for midday snack. I wonder why I needed to know about someone’s sister-in-law’s-neighbors-best-friend’s breakup or birthday. I wonder why people can’t keep anything to themselves anymore. I wonder what forces people to write when they do not have what to say.
My frustration peeked yesterday. I read some new post; it came across as poor, raw and irrelevant. I was deeply saddened. It was my latest post.