11 Years And Still Counting

Way back on June 1, 2002 — 11 long years ago — I started writing what I’ve come to accept is a “blog.” I refused to call it a “blog” for many years because it was more than just a few sentences strung today, but consisted of casual, personal essays that had beginnings, middles, and endings. It was a structured thing, a literary act written in a calm, natural tone of voice. It was unlike what most “bloggers” were writing back then, which were just random, hit-and-miss comments of a few, loose-fitting sentences.

A French friend of my dear French friend, Gisele — a fellow named Marc — designed a website for me on a French server in 2002. And I was off and running and kept running on that French site for the next eight years.

My very first few sentences on that very first writing day said this: “Does the world really need another Web site filled with yet another person’s words expressing yet another miscellaneous collection of miscellaneous thoughts?

“Aren’t there already too many words and opinions out there clogging up virtual space with enough chatter to choke a galaxy of gigabytes?”

Those were, of course, rhetorical questions. The fact that the answer to those make-believe questions was an obvious “NO!” did not stop me from adding my own two-cents’ worth to the already choking galaxy of gasping gigabytes.

Since those words were written 11 long years ago, the number of bloggers on the Internet has multi-quadrupled into the billions. Nowadays, it’s almost as if you don’t really exist if you don’t have a blog, or at least a Facebook facsimile.

But back in 2002, I was the only person I knew who had a blog, whether or not I called it that. And there was no such thing as Facebook or Twitter. I guess you could say I was one of the early birds.

I wrote a lot about my life and American life and global life and cosmic life and especially about my life in Paris. Those were the years when I was traipsing over to Paris every four to six months and staying for two to three weeks at a time. I made 16 different trips to Paris in those days. It was wonderful. I always stayed in the same room — room #32 — at the Hotel Lyon-Mulhouse near the Place de la Bastille. I had my own balcony, and at night I could lie in bed and look out my tall French windows at the Eiffel Tower.

And I wrote about all that stuff.

But over the years, the French server started having more and more technical problems. It was becoming more difficult for me to navigate the site confidently. And so when my American friend, Robert Musco (who lives right around the corner from me here in New Haven) offered to build me a new site on an American server or site or whatever, called Word Press, I jumped at the idea.

I immediately dropped the French site and began writing on the site you’re reading me on now. In two days, I will be marking my third anniversary here on Word Press.

The reason I mention all this is because just today, I noticed for the first time that George Orwell, the author of “Animal Farm” and “1984,” also publishes here on Word Press. Of course, Orwell died in 1950. So he’s not publishing anything new anywhere.

But his diaries are being published here on Word Press. They run from August 1931 to April 1949.

You can read them for yourself, if you like. Just go here:

http://orwelldiaries.wordpress.com/

It really pleases me to share the same site/server/whatever it’s called with the great Orwell. I have admired him for more than 50 years and have read most of his work. I even own the 597-page book edition of his Diaries, plus the 4-volume set of his essays, journalism and letters, plus a dozen other books by him. He is one of my writing heroes. He wrote good, plain, clear, down-to-earth prose that tried to cut through much of the world’s bullshit.

Today — the 25^th — is his birthday. He is 110 years old. Except, of course, he isn’t. He died of tuberculosis at the young age of 46.

And so I carry on as best I can, with or without Orwell, with or without Paris, losing readers fast and furiously.

Once upon a time, I had hundreds of readers. Nowadays, I’m lucky if I have 80. My last essay attracted 82. That’s a recent high mark. If I keep going at this rate, I’ll end up writing for the exclusive company of one: Me.

Of course, if the truth be told — and Orwell would insist that it be told — I basically write for that exclusive company already.

But once I begin to bore even myself, this whole blogging episode will finally come to a crashing stop.

But not yet. After 11 years, I sort of hate to give up writing this thing — whatever it is — while my brain still seems to be working every so often.

And so on this near-anniversary day, I say thank you for sticking with me — some of you for the full 11 years — as I keep throwing my little literary mud balls against the shifting, virtual brick wall of the Internet.

I may not have a lot of readers. But the ones I do have are of excellent quality.

 

Explore posts in the same categories: Uncategorized