that since the birth of reality TV, we’ve become one nation, under God, indivisible with cameras and viewers for all. We’ve become a nation of hedonists, sadists, masochists, and voyeurs, and sadly, I can’t exclude myself from the status quo. Because I love reality TV, and since that’s not enough, I am now addicted to blogging and that stupid Facebook. Geez.
What is it about the ability to peek inside people’s lives that is so compelling? I know there are some of you that come back to read my pontifications over and over. And I love trolling the photos and commentary of my “friends” on Facebook. Yet we’re non-celebrities, the lot of us, and the fascination or need to know is still there. But then, I’ve always believed truth is stranger than fiction, and a hell of a lot funnier, too.
As a writer, this blog feeds me because it is an outlet for my thoughts, a way to practice my craft uncensored, at my own pace. I’ve been asked—and told—multiple times that I should write a book. But about what? Fiction is out of the question because I’ve never been a very good liar. So if it’s another memoir, or a bio of another, could I actually sustain it through hundreds of pages? And who would want to buy it when there are so many fascinating, hilarious, and creative blogs and social networks out there?
I say, thank God for blogging, because I finally am writing the book of my life. This is me, here, day-in, day-out. Now I’m going on years’ worth of my own obsessions, pain, and peccadilloes. Of course, not all the details of my life and thoughts in my head are here, as I do reserve parts of myself for me alone or the people closest to me. But with any fanatic blogger, as a reader, you’re getting a fraction of the turbulence or brilliance inside your fellow human being. A cross-section of a life. For free.
This is the 21st century memoir, practically real-time, and in multimedia…no book has ever given us that. Every time I think I’ve gone too far here, that perhaps I should shut up, someone tells me that my words either enlightened or brightened. For me, that is enough to keep me going. Because after all, why does the writer write? Even ensconced in their literary dens without a soul around, even when the ego is their only audience, even when they are ruminating about the afflictions of their souls, they write for one simple reason:
To be heard.