6.11.09

The Dance of Love

This week a tiny clearing broke through the raucous thumping of creation. "Is anyone paying you to do this blogging thing?"  "No," I replied.  "Then, why are you doing it?"


Great question. Why am I doing this? Since all motivation comes down to either avoidance of pain or pursuit of pleasure, what is driving my behavior? I'm usually the last to know why I'm doing most things, so I looked at other bloggers to try and piece together some clues.

Honestly?


It appears there are as many reasons to do this as there are people doing it. Here's a link to a recent "Top 100" citing in the Times Online regarding the "blogscape" , if you are interested in Brian Appleyard's view on the genre. He's a professional journalist, so he's done an excellent job of researching the whole enchilada.

Recent guesstimates put the current number of blogs at over 200 million. Many of the posts about the growth of blogging appeared in 2005 and then died out. Just as many of the blogs did. Apparently blog mortality is a big issue.

I suspect the thrill over the printing press had a slightly longer honeymoon period.

For me there is the immediacy of seeing my words in a finished format. These words are not cleared by a committee, or approved by the legal department and beyond speller checker, lack formal editing.

This feels naughty, even writing it - I am completely unsupervised. Clearly at some point, that has to stop. Some part of me is waiting for the blog police to discover that I'm not qualified, licensed, certified or approved in any way to be just writing whatever I'm thinking about.

For heaven's sake, could I at least try and make money?

External acts that consistently deliver internal satisfaction - definition of a carrot on a stick, dangling in front of this donkey's nose. If I wanted a guarantee of something, blogging probably isn't the way to get it.

So the promise of fame and fortune on the outside take a backseat to a kind of internal stubborn streak. I practice three times a week because I can. Showing up, facing a blank screen, putting fingers to key board, refusing to take no for an answer. Typing along on my keyboard, there is nothing between me and the public except the acknowledgement that the posts may live forever.

Whoa. So that's kind of scary but also kind of thrilling.

Creating a foothold in cyber space with this freakishly direct medium is risky. Powerful socialization functions kicking in, my typing reflexively slows.

But hey, I endeavor to stifle myself every day in the name of good manners, so how real is the downside of acting out a bit here and there? Rather than succumb to the habit of hiding under a concrete veil of self criticism, I continue leaping into the creative fray.


Freedom, excitement, challenge, risk, set-backs, boredom, doubt, triumph, failure, exoneration, witness, advocacy, causation, liberation, art.

Looking at the process of creative expression, getting paid doesn't pop up. It is "supposed" to be worth money. If there is a socially acceptable reason to do anything it's selling.

Have a goal, a plan, an objective, for heaven's sake, at least an editorial calendar. Drive, do, produce, get money. Sigh.

Even writing that last little bit was torturous. Trust me. I know. Been there, done that. As a matter of fact, do NOT offer money as a reason to create. It stinks up the place.

If "a" then "b" isn't available, goal orientation slips away. Simply the clicking sound of the keys.

Freedom, joy, expression, monkey business. Entertainment. Fun.

There is it. Blogging is fun. Like some people would be skiing. Or sailing, exercising, reading, or playing the piano.

I'm thinking about it. Whatever it happens to be today. And if I wanted, I could tell you this blog is about triumphing over the inevitable smallness of any single life and reaching for immortality.


So, fun and death defying.

Oh, and love. Always about love.

Because in this little universe, as far as I can tell, there really is nothing else.

Blame it on the Bossa Nova.

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