Yes. I know. Wordsmiths. Authors. Writers. They’re all the same.
But the only how which I know how to really do with words is blog. (Oh. There’s proofreading too, but as I’m neither the worst nor the best at this, we’ll just go and leave it to one side …)
I don’t know about you, but I feel slightly ashamed – at least in polite company, and at least in that part of the world we term “outside” – when I admit to the fact that I blog.
I admit it.
I am an inveterate blogger.
Inveterate at that.
I admit it with all its consequences. Without the platforms I’ve used, without the environment they create, without the hyperlinks, the freely accessible content (freely accessible doesn’t always mean free, by the way) and the thoughts and murmurings and musings of so many, I wouldn’t have written the three or four thousand articles that the last twelve years have issued forth.
And why do I say I am a blogger and not a writer? A writer writes from within, quite often; maybe more often than not. A blogger, meanwhile, writes only in reaction to another’s assertion, lifetime or observation.
At least in my case. At least here where you read me now.
At least in practically all the places I’ve ever written.
The only place I think I used to write purely from within was a static-HTML website of a blog I developed deliberately not to entangle with anyone else.
The content for this site is now lost to the ether.
But the attempt to be a writer – not a blogger! – was noble enough.
To revindicate the condition of being a blogger – to come out of a closet received opinion has slowly been putting us inside … maybe yes, maybe it’s time we admitted we’re not writers. Not writers with a fictional relationship but bloggers with a factual basis.
Maybe angry too, that is true – but never more than rhetoric-bespattered; never literally violent.
I can’t usually write if I don’t read something which someone else writes first. It may just be a tweet; it may be a full-blown post.
Occasionally, I write about stuff that happens to me – but as very little of real interest is to be found in my world, and what there is more and more deserves to be private, I have to occupy vicariously the world of others and their thoughts.
That is what the sort of writer I am ends up doing, you see.
A blogger, and proud.
What about you?