I’d like to believe that personal/individual blogging is still a popular form of expression, but I certainly appreciate the sentiment of the extract above (and the entire article). Who needs to think their way through a long-form piece of writing when they can reblog1 something that’s popped up on a dashboard (“me too!”) or tap out a 140 character statement of the moment and move on?
I started blogging in the early noughties, inspired by Josh Santangelo of Endquote.com, the first blogger I can remember reading with any regularity. Josh wrote about his hopes and aspirations, loves and losses, and all the messiness of his inner thought and experience. I was a bright-eyed wannabe writer with a penchant for the web, confessional poetry and any other writing that gave me insight into the inner workings of people I didn’t know. But Endquote was less an opportunity to practise voyeurism, more a reminder of the way that emotive writing can show us how different we are from the other people we share the planet with, and yet how un-alone.
Last time I checked, the Endquote.com I knew was gone, replaced by a generic (professional) holding page. Checking again today, I find that Endquote is now a Tumblr property, complete with images of sharply styled young women, selfies, nods to sartorial inspiration and Soundcloud embeds. I miss the old Endquote (though I wonder if the writing as it was would have the same impact on me now) but this new iteration is still Josh. An absolutely contemporary expression of self.
Nothing against reblogging here. Reblogging may as well be the new common intertextuality. ↩
This started out as a much longer piece. Honestly. I’d love to say I edited it down from flabby imperfection, but the truth is I committed the schoolboy error of drafting the original through a web back-end in Safari on an iPad, while switching between tabs, as if taunting the god of all things technological to swallow everything I’d written. Which s/he did. D’oh. ↩
Could be just me, but it looks like Tumblr doesn’t like Markdown footnotes. Grrr. ↩
Very true. I’m reworking my “professional” website at the moment, and one of the time-consuming jobs is having to go through my history and decide which projects are appropriate for my portfolio. There’s so much I’ve done that I’ve forgotten, regardless of scale or prestige. And that’s the value of this kind of exercise. I hate updating résumés and CVs, but it’s necessary— not only do these documents serve your own professional efforts, but they’re useful reflections on everything you’ve achieved, challenges for you to think about what you define as important.
I’ve just recently returned from a week out leading an Arvon course. If you’re not familiar, Arvon is a residential creative writing institution founded by Ted Hughes, with a number of different centres in remote locations around the UK. There was a period of time when I used to run Arvon weeks quite regularly, but it’s been a while since I was last there, so a recent burst of Arvon invitations has been welcome. The week I’ve just returned from was different from any other Arvon week I can remember leading. The participant group consisted of foster-children and their carers; an age range spanning from six to mid-sixties, split between three rough bandings— adults, teens and little’uns. It was an intense week (lack of internet and mobile network notwithstanding), but so rewarding.
Everyone wrote. Even the adults, those with English as a second language, who may have been forgiven for thinking they were just there to chaperone the kids. And what stories they all had. What poems they wrote. For an afternoon, I sat with the group of adults and spoke with them about life stories— how the children in their care need to document their lives so they have something to look back on. I’d like to think that I gave them a few tools and techniques for compelling writing, but I know they also left me with a reminder of how important our writing practise is.
As a writer— as someone who’s supposed to chase the writing day in, day out— it’s perhaps too easy to lose sight of what the individual poems actually mean; how much they weigh, what place they carve out or impact on beyond the paper or screen they’re written on. But experiences like this serve as a reminder of how powerful and valuable this work with words can be. And how that power doesn’t have to be manifest on a spotlit stage with an audience of thousands. That value doesn’t have to be attached to publication in a journal or anthology. I’m talking about what poetry can do (or be) for everyday people who push (or are pushed!) to write it, nudged to engage with parts of their experience they didn’t think it was possible for them to capture in words. And what happens when they succeed, when they stand back from what they’ve written and see themselves or people they know there, recognisable and yet unfamiliar. Even if they never pick up the pen again.
And so, on to the next opportunity.