November 18, 2014 3 Comments
Walked out this morning
Don’t believe what I saw
A hundred billion bottles
Washed up on the shore
Seems I’m not alone at being alone
A hundred billion castaways
Looking for a home
-Sting, Message in a Bottle
I read a post at Jodie Llewellyn’s site, Words Read and Written that asked the question, How do you measure your blog’s success? The comments from readers provide an interesting snapshot into people’s motivations for blogging. Some are in it for followers (hoping, perhaps, to translate that into book sales some day). Others want to share their dreams and insights with others (for example, writing instructional articles). Others are unconvinced that others care much about their blog, and they are doing it for themselves.
My perception of what constitutes a “successful blog” has changed over time. Initially, I suppose I wanted to be read by people. My mental image was of my fingertips etching words onto computer screens around the world. The sluggish statistical reports provided by WordPress quickly dispelled that unrealistic expectation. But for a long time, it still made a big difference to me whether people visited, liked and commented. Other people’s reactions to my posts mattered.
Now, I am content to write this blog as if I am writing it to myself only. A memoir in a glass house, a digital message in a bottle. Others are welcome to read it (or ignore it, or remain blissfully ignorant of its existence) as well. However, to say, “then” and “now” is overly simplistic. There was a transformation that did not go without at least some cynicism. In fact, cynicism seems to be one of the two most predictable outcomes of maintaining a blog. (The other being apathy, if the innumerable corpses of now defunct blogs last posted to sometime in 2007 are any indication.)
Why is cynicism such an easy course to take as a blogger? For me, it was a natural product of the process and interface with the readers. I found myself opening my dashboard, immediately looking for that little box in the corner. Is it orange? Hey, someone liked a post and followed my blog! Hang on a second. Did they only do it so that I would visit their site and like or follow them? Did they pepper a bazillion unlikable blogs with Likes just to increase traffic to their site? And what is the purpose of a Like, anyway? Why can’t I Dislike a blog?
My blogging nadir (at least, my nadir-to-date) came in mid-November 2012, halfway through National Novel Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo). My posts just ceased for about two years. For about a year, I still had a bookmark to my dashboard on the bookmarks bar, thinking that perhaps I might get back to it. Then, realizing that I subconsciously avoided looking at that part of the bookmarks bar, I finally deleted the bookmark. (Demented, I know.)
Life continued happily. I read no blogs, and a quick scan of the stats confirms that very few people read mine. (Actually, that’s not entirely true… there are a few inexplicably popular posts. If I constantly wrote about graphic novels, I’d have some really “impressive” stats.) I wrote a lot… I just didn’t share any of it.
Then, about three weeks ago, I started posting on this site again. I’ve made a conscious decision to remain unruffled if two or two hundred or two million people click through my site daily, reading all or none of my posts. I was only able to come to this conclusion because the same process had already occurred for my writing in general. I write for me. I will continue writing, even if no one reads it.
When I picked up this blog again, I went through and read my posts from start to finish. It was interesting to see the evolution of the thing, from protozoan brag board to an online notebook with opposable thumbs. I enjoy having a record of my thoughts that I can go back to months and years later. The advantage a blog has over a journal (which would otherwise serve the same purpose), is that I would probably not worry about the cosmetic appearance of my journal at all, whereas I have some incentive (real or imagined) to make my blog posts look good, read well, and be of interest to someone other than myself.
Hopefully, I am not the only one who will ever read this. But if I am, then at least the echo inside my own bottle sounds good.