This is one of those days when I’m asking myself: why do I blog? I’ve had this blog for about 8 years now, and been in the blog world for over 10 years. But now I’m asking myself, what exactly is the point?
Right now, I should be focusing on writing for money. Or, well, doing something for money. The fact is, I’ve been struggling lately. My depression came back last year, for other reasons, and the struggle to get into the film industry just worsened it. Self-doubt and self-loathing fill my head, I have days when I just want to lie in bed and do nothing—I don’t want to cook, I don’t want to do laundry, or I do laundry and don’t want to fold my clothes, so on and so forth. I have days when I just want to sit there, eat Choco Pie and watch stupid videos.
So I read, these days I’ve been reading and blogging a lot, to drown my own negative thoughts and to be productive in some way. It helped for a bit—especially since I joined Twitter, I have got more people reading my blog, even if most of my readers don’t comment.
Sometimes I intend to write for the magazine, or some other place, but can’t start, or start and can’t continue, then I end up writing a blog post. But then I start feeling bad again—the energy and time spent on a blog post should be spent on writing something else that brings money, or at least, should be spent on writing a script.
What am I blogging for? What the hell do I get out of it?
I know I chose to blog to share my enthusiasm, bring more readers to the books I love, and defend the books I love if anyone takes a dig at them. I know I chose to blog to share my thoughts, have a conversation, and learn from others. I know I chose to blog to find, to reach out to people with similar interests and passions. I know I chose to blog to organise my thoughts, keep track of things, and make notes for later. I know I chose to blog because of the freedom of a blog, where I wouldn’t be edited or censored, where I could write whatever I want without worrying about the audience as much as when I write for the magazine or anything similar.
I know all of my reasons, and love my blog, and it cheers me up to see a nice comment once in a while. But today is still one of those days when I can’t help feeling that it’s all pointless, time-consuming, and of no use to anyone, even myself. In a sense it has become a distraction, and has allowed me to continue procrastinating. Then I feel like shit.
To be honest, I don’t even know why I’m writing this blog post. To get some sympathy? To ask for support? Or just to whine? I’m not announcing an end of this blog, or a break—perhaps I might even contradict myself and write a blog post tomorrow. I don’t know.
But I can’t be the only one out there questioning the point of it all.
sorry to hear about the troubles. from my own experience, I know depressed people hate unsolicited advices so I won't give any. Just hope and pray that it passes and you find peace and stability in your life!
ReplyDeleteEven if you don't blog regularly your blog will remain a great archive and an inspiration to many readers, not just for the breadth and passion of your reading but your attention to detail and the close reading skills
I don't really have answers for many of those questions myself.
ReplyDeleteI wish I had advice about finding paid publishing gigs, but I do not know that world or understand it. Many publications would be lucky to have you.
Thanks a lot to both of you, for your kind words.
ReplyDeleteI'm grateful for your posts, they're brilliant, insightful and interesting. A writer's task is to write: being published, making money or finding readers are just accidents. Consider Emily Dickinson or Kafka.
ReplyDeleteA country doctor was Kafka's last book. It was discussed by a single reviewer. The volume was published in 1920, 2,000 copies(of which fewer than a hundred were sold during Kafka's life). It contains the texts: The new advocate. A country doctor. Up on the gallery. An old manuscript. Before the law. Jackals and Arabs. A visit to the mine. The next village. A message from the emperor. The Cares of a Family Man. Eleven sons. A fratricide. A dream. A report to an academy.
I know little and nobody can predict the distant future, but it's likely that by the time Shakespeare and Tolstoy and Homer and Jesus and Buddha and Proust have been long forgotten, readers will still continue to be amazed by A Message from the Emperor, The Cares of a Family Man and Jackals and Arabs.
Thank you, though you're talking about Emily Dickinson and Kafka there, I'm just me lol, I'm just a blogger, which is worthless. My writings for the magazine are, well, also worthless.
DeleteI don't quite agree with your prediction, but I suppose there's no point arguing about the future.