Confessions of a Failed Hermit

I rarely blog. Michelle does sometimes (though she seems far more interested in facebook lately). But it never really caught on with me. Part of the reason is that I'm so busy. I take mental breaks and find myself pointlessly surfing the internet just as much as the next person, but I like to pretend that there are limits to my laziness. To me, blogging has always resided on the far side of the laziness border, an activity that steers closer to self-promotion and hubris than to serious writing. Facebook status updates lean in this direction as well, though the culture there seems to be based on a "one-semi-witty-sentence-a-day" premise, which I find to be a nicely circumscribed interval. Twitter, as far as I can tell, is the ultimate "look at me, I'm important" medium, taking its users to new heights of selfishness and, by association, insecurity. But I've been forced to rethink blogs. In Enlightenment print culture, most forms of writing were and are selfish activities. Sure, there might be some "realm" of knowledge to which one can contribute, and of course practiced writing hones both the reader's and the writer's ability to process complex thoughts. There are even exotic animals called "anonymous" writers who seemingly write because they take pleasure in the activity, in the same way that a runner reaches a physical high even as he is putting his body through a grueling regimen. These are the monks of writing, driven by internal criteria rather than the internalization of external criteria. But the self-styled hermits, be they anonymous or pseudonymous, apparently want someone to read their writings, at some point. They may, in fact, be the most selfish of all writers, because they assume that their readers will recognize the exceptional genius that prevented open disclosure in the first place. Of course, many anonymous writers in previous centuries withheld their names because they feared state censorship or other repercussions. But such writers still knew how their work was received, and probably reveled in the praise anyways. In short, my previous notion that writing from obscurity and anonymity represented a higher calling because it was less selfish proves unlikely in most cases, and may actually belie insecurity on the part of the author.

In this light, I'd like to admit my insecurity and, yes, my selfishness. Writing always takes place in a social context, even if that context is not interpersonal or even uni-temporal. Journals, for instance, seem at first glance to primarily exist to exercise and organize the writer's faculties. But even if they aren't opened and read until after a writer's death, they are still constructed within a social structure, the basis for all language. A castaway on a desert island writes to a mental somebody, even if it's just a projection of the self from some previous social context, changed only slightly by isolation. But this doesn't mean that journals, blogs, books, and articles are only selfish endeavors. And, on this positive note, I've resolved to blog more frequently. Sure it's selfish. But it's not only selfish. Maybe people are genuinely interested. Maybe it will help me hone my own thoughts and writing. Heaven knows I rarely keep a journal. And to my readers (ie, to the two people who have managed to get this far. See! Insecurity abounds! I'm just embracing it now.), I say unto you: blog! I will no longer look at your blogs with contempt or a smug sense of superiority. Blog! I promise to read and comment and share in your insecurity, provided you share in my insecurity, lest I feel small and insignificant (more unabashed, backdoor selfishness!). Blog!

Just don't tweet. That still crosses some invisible line.

--Stewart