Being new to writing, blogging and whatnot, I decided to get the lay of the land, as some folks say. So I poked around and Jesus, Peter, frickin’ Joseph, Mary and Paul, there are a lot of people writing stuff about stuff.
What the hell.
Intellectually, I knew. But the mind is its own place, and mine is cluttered with carnival mirrors.
I concede that it is good that so many are writing because a lot of insightful, informative, inspiring and entertaining stuff is being written and, most importantly, read.
And this is good on both a micro and macro level: the whole personal expression, educating the masses, social connection and awareness, world peace, kumbaya thing.
But there are, to use the vernacular, epicly incomprehensible numbers of people engaged in this activity. Granted, these numbers are to be expected in a world of billions. And among the millions, a multitude of really smart, important people are doing it. Exploring this world of writing is like wandering around in the scrub and happening upon a forest of giant sequoias (and these goliaths write so artistically, landing their triple toe looped lutz perfectly and effortlessly).
But do so many of us who feel compelled to engage in this activity, should we really? I mean, why the hell am I writing when tens of thousands precede me? Certainly the likelihood of writing something fresh, revelatory and resonating is minuscule. This post, like the carcass of a dead whale, simply adds to the detritus on the blogosphere floor.