Chris Clarke (here and here) and Theriomorph (here [mostly in the comments] and here) have been engaged in what appears to be a mutual and collective discussion about writing and, by extension, blogging.  Both are beautiful writers, of course, and both have tremendous insight and experience to share in such matters.  Writing, I mean.  At least in certain venues and genres, I mean.  Well, for specific target audiences and from certain perspectives, I mean.  Born of specific intentions, I mean.

Anyway. . .

I adore both of them and their blogs.  I can’t count the times I have been pushed to tears by something they wrote, both tears of joy and tears of grief.  I have been moved, touched, inspired, challenged, and otherwise captivated by their writing, their thoughts, their emotions.

Yet both write for specific reasons.  Rather, both blog for specific reasons, as blogging and writing professionally are two different things (and yes, I very much mean that one who blogs for money is not really blogging; they’re writing professionally).

‘Blog’ is a concatenation of two words: ‘web’ and ‘log,’ the latter being used synonymously for ‘journal.’  Keep in mind ‘bournal’ failed to catch on, so ‘blog’ won the competition of names.  Nevertheless, blogs are inherently personal or professional journals, or a combination of both—but journals they are.

But what of the word ‘journals’ in this context?  Might it be nothing more than a synonym for ‘diary’?  After all, I have journaled since I was but a young lad, and in that journaling I have done all that is needed to be referred to as “keeping a diary.”  Remember, poppets, ‘journal’ is nothing more than the politically correct, gender independent term for ‘diary,’ especially since society would frown heavily upon any boy who kept a diary.  Instead, he keeps a journal, and we accept that readily even though we’d reject it if we called it by its true name.

In essence, xenogere is a digital diary, an online journal, a web log—a blog.  That leads me back to where I began.

Throughout the back-and-forth conversation they’re having, Chris and Theriomorph have voiced personal and professional opinions on what blogging means to them (as an extension of writing).  This consequently produced a wee bit of insight into what they do and don’t like to read on blogs.  Two things that stand out are the perceived dislike of diary blogs (redundant, I know, but stay with me) and the interest in those blogs which offer highbrow, cultured, insightful, creative, respectable writing (as defined by them, I mean).

And that’s what got me to thinking.

When two people I admire and respect begin speaking in terms of what encompasses good writing and, therefore, good blogging, I sit up and listen.  I take note and immediately delve into an analysis of my own efforts and intentions.  For those who know me well enough, it should come as no surprise that my self-deprecating tendencies kicked in, leaving me depressed about blogging, disappointed in what I do here, and feeling discouraged and disheartened.

But wait a minute!  Whose blog is this?  Oh, it’s mine.

After I seriously considered giving up this little exercise—and I mean considered it to the point of teetering on the edge of taking the site down—it occurred to me I had been trapped by two marvelous intellects by way of my own misunderstanding.

Likes and dislikes are personal opinions.  They can be based on a great many things, but ultimately they are nothing more than individual biases.  There’s nothing wrong with that, mind you, for someone who likes chocolate but dislikes sweet potatoes can’t be all bad.

So I began another evaluation of my blogging under a very different light: that created by my own likes and dislikes, my own intentions, and I ignored what others were saying as none of it had anything to do with me.  If they like a blog, that’s great.  If they don’t like a blog, that’s great.  If they think writing is either good or bad, that’s great.  But none of that defines the worth of any of the content in question except through their eyes.

Which brings the discussion back to xenogere.

I began this blog almost five years ago for three main reasons: (1) To communicate with family and friends, (2) to serve as an extension of my regular journaling, and (3) to be a digital white board upon which I could practice my writing in whatever form or manner I wished.

What you don’t see there is the heart of a playwright, someone whose sole intention is to engage an audience.  Sure, my friends and family might be engaged, but that’s a primary and secondary consideration to (1) without being the only purpose of the blog.

To wit, I have blogged since February 5, 2003.  There are 4,247 posts excluding this one, not to mention 46 static pages.  There are 2,156 comments submitted by 180 different people.  If I felt it critical to blog for an audience, don’t you think I would have quit by now?

Truth be told, I have a respectable readership (based on return visits and feed subscriptions), and I receive quite a bit of feedback via e-mail.  There’s no question as to whether or not anyone is reading the drivel I offer here.  But that’s not the point.

I blog for me.  Any other result counts as a fringe benefit, no matter if measured by comments or e-mails or subscribers/visitors or whatever.  The spirit of this blog has never changed despite the evidence of that spirit mutating from time to time in sporadic dashes of waywardness.

I write what I want to write.  I post images of photographs that catch my eye.  There exists no other reason for what you see here.

While Chris and Theriomorph have dissimilar interests and intents from my own, blogging, for me at least, remains a personal endeavor, one born—and borne—of a capricious and independent spirit.

Which is why my blogroll, although generally in flux at all times, offers a wide variety of styles and themes.

From Annie Gottlieb, an accomplished and published author, the doldrums of my own life melt away as I revel in her life with cats, her centrist and open-minded political and philosophical views, and her personal travails as the spouse of and caregiver for someone with Alzheimer’s.  She has and continues to teach me a great deal, and she inspires me in ways she can’t possibly realize (especially as I was a cancer and AIDS caregiver for quite some time).

From Pam I receive a splendid and original look at nature, an escape to life in the Northeast, and a personal view of the world from someone struggling to make it from survival to the dream reality we all picture in our heads.  She blesses me with every bit of humor and joy that she discovers in the mundane grind of American life.

From Wayne and Glenn I enjoy hope for a world full of tolerance.  The science and nature buffs share a great deal of my own interests in the universe.  I envy them their home in rurality, their (as perceived) comfortable life being who they are while being a part of society, and their love of cats, many of whom share their home.

From Wil Weaton (yes, Wesley Crusher from Star Trek: The Next Generation) I gain a newfound respect for the charm and wit of a charismatic actor-turned-writer, one who shares through expert writ the wonder of a father and husband and the triumphs and disappointments of a struggling author, not to mention a great deal more.

From Theriomorph I learn that beauty lies within, and that that beauty translates easily to the world around us so long as we stop and take notice.  She teaches me constantly that every moment in time is a universe unto itself, and that within those universes great discoveries wait for us to find them.

From Chris Clarke I am gifted with joys and sorrows told with words in such ways that boggle the mind.  The man can write.  Too often I find myself engaged and enraptured by his work, his love of nature, his longing for the familiar animals who have shared life with him. . .and have been lost to eternity.  I see in him the very man I am in such matters, the one who has no fear of weeping for what is taken by age and disease, even if who is gone was not human.

From Brandon Hoover, “an American guy makin’ his way from the exotic island of Java, Indonesia,” I selfishly take the opportunity to visit exotic lands with a photographer who shares the majesty of what he experiences with both images and words.  I see the world differently through his eyes, and I’m profoundly glad he chooses to share it with me.

And the list goes on.  One need only look through my blogroll to find a plethora of individual styles and talents, a litany of blogs focused on a variety of topics and written by people who vary in their literary abilities from amateur to professional.  Every one of them means something to the author, and every one of them means something to me.

I no longer feel personally slighted by Chris and Theriomorph.  Such injury was self-inflicted anyway, a wound received only through the magic of the human mind, one never really meant for me personally yet taken and distorted by me until it had my name plastered all over it.  We’re such silly animals, aren’t we?

Nay, poppets, the momentary threat of losing xenogere has once again come and gone.  By way of a general discussion based on personal preferences I have once again discovered myself, discovered the reason I’m here on the intarweb, discovered the me buried deep within the expanding pages of this web journal.

The way I see it, either you like it or you don’t.  For me, that doesn’t matter—regardless of how cold that sounds.  I do this for me, for personal reasons, and any other benefit is an unexpected treat.

Finally, to Chris and Theriomorph—if you read this, please don’t think it a slight.  On the contrary, it should demonstrate that I do read what you write, that I listen and learn from you, and that you affect and influence me, undoubtedly among others.  It’s just that your almost quid pro quo conversation meant something to me personally.  I had to read between the lines to find my own truth, as all readers do based on the authors’ words, and in that revelation I found strength.  Thank you both.