I have been maintaining my blog for eighteen months now, to serve its purpose as a literary playground, a sounding board, a forum, and even once as a tool to come out of the closet.
Many things have been said about blogging: some writers would consider it as an incubator for ideas, which later becomes the seed from which their literary works grow, others think it is a great way to communicate to a multitude of people without the trouble of having to individually contact each person; most bloggers like myself use it simply as a form of self-expression, and finally for some, as Pinoy Penman Butch Dalisay would put it, it is a venue for shameless self promotion and cheeky exhibitionism.
Regardless of the motives, a person’s blog becomes an extension of himself- an online avatar if you will, which all denizens of cyber space would be free to judge and criticize after scrutinizing the blog entries. Therein lies the big difference between keeping a pen-and-paper diary and a personal blog. Perversely, I have this penchant for blurting out the most intimate details of my private life in my blog- as a way to purge strong emotions or simply rant about my problems and injustices, hoping to find solace in online friends who would tell me they’ve had the same predicaments and that “everything would turn out alright.”
Whenever a blogger posts an entry online (even anonymously), one wouldn’t expect secrecy- because someone is bound to stumble upon it and unravel the truth. We all know that risk, and take it nevertheless. In my case I simply let it all hang out, though I get a nagging feeling I might have revealed too much. The emotional catharsis that comes with the revelation, however, is usually well worth it.
I’ve always been worried how people would think of me, considering the fact that I live in a very conservative society and that I have this nonchalant attitude toward things considered taboo (like sex, for instance). I write about my relationships, in a manner that is as frank as a friend who would lean close to your ear to whisper juicy details, though I try very carefully to use the right words, so as not to lean toward vulgarity.
I remember an incident that happened sometime ago, right after I posted a vignette about a certain affair:
I was walking along, minding my own business when a girl suddenly came up to me and said: “I read your blog!” And gave me a knowing look. I blushed.
Sometimes, the opposite happens. A schoolmate confessed he could relate to what I wrote, and went on to say that reading my entries had become a habit for him and that he would download and save them so he could read at his leisure.
I think that all writers, whether from the past, the present, or the future, whether they are “serious writers” or not, simply want the same thing: for others to bear witness. Isn’t that what were all trying to do? To prove we exist, that we live in these times, and that we want our stories told.
I am not trying to justify that blogging is the new literary frontier- this is still subject for debate. In the meantime I’ll keep blogging, not for popularity or any other reasons, but because it’s fun.
Many things have been said about blogging: some writers would consider it as an incubator for ideas, which later becomes the seed from which their literary works grow, others think it is a great way to communicate to a multitude of people without the trouble of having to individually contact each person; most bloggers like myself use it simply as a form of self-expression, and finally for some, as Pinoy Penman Butch Dalisay would put it, it is a venue for shameless self promotion and cheeky exhibitionism.
Regardless of the motives, a person’s blog becomes an extension of himself- an online avatar if you will, which all denizens of cyber space would be free to judge and criticize after scrutinizing the blog entries. Therein lies the big difference between keeping a pen-and-paper diary and a personal blog. Perversely, I have this penchant for blurting out the most intimate details of my private life in my blog- as a way to purge strong emotions or simply rant about my problems and injustices, hoping to find solace in online friends who would tell me they’ve had the same predicaments and that “everything would turn out alright.”
Whenever a blogger posts an entry online (even anonymously), one wouldn’t expect secrecy- because someone is bound to stumble upon it and unravel the truth. We all know that risk, and take it nevertheless. In my case I simply let it all hang out, though I get a nagging feeling I might have revealed too much. The emotional catharsis that comes with the revelation, however, is usually well worth it.
I’ve always been worried how people would think of me, considering the fact that I live in a very conservative society and that I have this nonchalant attitude toward things considered taboo (like sex, for instance). I write about my relationships, in a manner that is as frank as a friend who would lean close to your ear to whisper juicy details, though I try very carefully to use the right words, so as not to lean toward vulgarity.
I remember an incident that happened sometime ago, right after I posted a vignette about a certain affair:
I was walking along, minding my own business when a girl suddenly came up to me and said: “I read your blog!” And gave me a knowing look. I blushed.
Sometimes, the opposite happens. A schoolmate confessed he could relate to what I wrote, and went on to say that reading my entries had become a habit for him and that he would download and save them so he could read at his leisure.
I think that all writers, whether from the past, the present, or the future, whether they are “serious writers” or not, simply want the same thing: for others to bear witness. Isn’t that what were all trying to do? To prove we exist, that we live in these times, and that we want our stories told.
I am not trying to justify that blogging is the new literary frontier- this is still subject for debate. In the meantime I’ll keep blogging, not for popularity or any other reasons, but because it’s fun.
