VOF Week 3: (BLOGGING: Is it a real writing?)
My teacher, who is one of the most respected poets in my country and who I also love dearly, asked me while the two of us were having wine and cheese in her house, “Is blogging a real writing?”
As a typical elite writer, she raises her brow when she hears the word, “blogging.” She has nothing against technology as she is well-equipped with it. However, she is dubious about blogs. She is not comfortable with the language used on blogs, and the nakedness of the self to the whole world. She tells me that a journal is supposed to be a secret thing and not meant to be shared with the rest of the world. The issues that she raised are the same issues that kept me from writing blogs. I’ve been trained by her; especially on how to read well and the things I should read. And, blogs are a taboo for a serious literature student. Blogs are angst-ridden; egoistic; the language is detestable; mostly ungrammatical; and sometimes even pornographic! How do you know that people will read you? Why would you want to share so much about yourself that in turn can make you vulnerable? What about the time you’re supposed to read a good piece of literature instead of blog?
True, both of us are very privy when it comes to telling our own story and very picky when it comes to reading materials. After all, she fondly calls me her “literary daughter” since I attended four or more of her literature classes; unlike her other “literary children” who are published writers. As my literary mother, she understands that my archetypal journey involves the slaying of the mother, which means, I will go opposite her direction, to be freed from the shadow of the mother to become me.
I don’t know how many people will read me, or if my writing will come close to good literature. What I do know is that every feeling can be expressed through arts, even angst. Although, I choose to write things that in my own judgment can inspire others because I enjoy the feeling of being happy. Any writer, any artist, one way or another is egoistic because s/he wants attention from/to/for the self, others, the world, which is but natural. If a journal is supposed to be a secret, then why do I get to read the unabridged journals of Sylvia Plath; or the diaries of Rilke or Anne Frank; or the memoirs of Ellie Wiesel or Czeslaw Milosz?
I think, not all published works are good literature; in the same way that not all blogs are nonsense. If we can make things better, then let’s make things better.
I open myself to the world because I want the world to open itself to me.
I know in my heart that when she gets to see this, she’ll enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.