“But, why do you blog?” my friend Ottavia asks.
I tell her I do it because I like to. I add that if no one ever read my entries, I’d probably post them anyway.
“I’m really worried about this,” she says. “It’s different from letters, which bring you closer to others. This sounds so isolating.”
Outwardly, I explain that blogs could be the ultimate family album. A way to stay in touch even across continents. Bla, bla, bla. Inwardly, I consider this. I have always loved activities, such as reading or swimming, which I suppose could be considered reclusive.
Could she be right?
I guess it comes down to how I feel while I write.
With my fingers on this keyboard, putting a thought down on the screen and editing it until it feels just right, I am quite possibly at my happiest.
As I sit here and write this, I am indeed alone in front of my computer. But I feel anything but lonely. Every corner of this room is full. I feel I’m writing for you. A warm, fluid, luminescent, interchangeable you.
My verdict is this: It’s romantic, in a dark, enticingly tormented, smoky, dense, impossibly slim, emotionally just out of your reach sort of way to say that writing is a lonely enterprise. But no matter what anyone tells you, its ultimate purpose is one of communion. Of sharing – even if the only person you are sharing it with is a hopeful, wistfully optimistic future version of you. Even if whom you share it with remains forever abstract.
Yes. A blog is an endeavor one embarks on alone. It’s only isolating if that’s how the writer feels. This writer does not.