I’ve met some amazing women and men in the blogosphere. I've enjoyed the powerful yet simple stories offered by everyday people—creative, caring, concerned, need-to-be-heard, can’t-stand-it-anymore, look-at-my-new-puppy people. And it all stems from the writing.
As vast as the blogosphere is, it can be as familiar as the coffee shop down the street where you may greet a neighbor, or have a heart-to-heart with a friend. It’s really a personal space. Yet the most public of venues. People everywhere share the breadcrumbs of their lives with the utmost detail. Someone posts a haiku about a dragonfly with a dragonfly photo. Someone posts a letter written to her dead mother. Someone posts her daughter's picture and talks about the first day of school. On and on it goes: the human condition. In this space, the ordinary details become extraordinary.
Why do we come back to the blogs we visit? What is here in the blogosphere that we can’t find in the real world? Think about it—we’re reading other people’s stories. Every time I post something, the subtext is saying, I don’t know you, but here I am and I’m sharing this piece of my life with you. Please read. Technology has made it possible to find something funny, or larger than life, or thought-provoking with the click of the mouse.
And the writing. Let’s not forget the good writing that makes me, as a reader, care about the small stuff: a list of words that you absolutely hate; the last bloom of the summer hydrangeas; a homemade chocolate cake; how you don’t like your kids sometimes; how hard it is to make ends meet. We forgive a lot here—the typos and sometimes poorly constructed sentences. It's not about that. It never was.
That’s why I come here to the nebulous. It seems as if we write about the truest part of ourselves, and our responses can be a pat on the back or a kick in the pants. And I don’t even know your names. Or how you really look. Or your job. Or the car your drive. Or how you take your coffee in the morning. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if you’re a jerk. Or an insomniac. Or on the edge of financial ruin. Or terrible at sex. All I know is that you have something to say, and I have a moment to read your story.
For more of the small stuff, visit Sunday Scribblings.