I was going through some old letters today and wondered how I ever found the time to write in neat handwriting. Better yet, find a ballpoint pen that actually works. And it got me wondering, that blogging in the fifties – aside from technological advances – would simply be reduced to diary writings or dissertations. I was never one for diaries and Chechnya could have not been written without the use of the Internet. And who really wants to write a handwritten diary page about the immortality of the walnut?
A friend of mine told me this morning that I should refrain from being personal in my blog writing. Better yet, not write at all. At least in such a public manner. But he failed to see that what motivates me is not the pleasure of being read, but rather the energy of writing itself. Good or bad. Real or make believe. Everyone has a story to tell. Every thing is a story in itself.
Lousy or brilliantly, we who do not consider ourselves writers feel the need to type away our wonderings, feelings, idiocies or just plain random events that shape our lives. To be able to blog it and make it your own, is just the brilliancy of living in the times that we do. Even if no one turns the pages to read. So to my fellow bloggers who pour out the interesting ideas that I read during my morning coffees: type away. May we never succumb to the privations of living in the fifties (except maybe for typewriters).-