Another crisis of blogconscience deflected
So, tonight (er, technically, last night), I was talking to a reporter about his story, on the phone, and we'd gone down my list of queries and I was about to wrap up the conversation -- "Well, hopefully I won't have to bother you again this weekend" -- when he interrupted and said, "Hey, didn't I see somewhere that you once kept a blog?"
And as soon as he said it my eyes popped out and my brain started firing on all these different levels:
What? He's read my blog?
What, pray, what might he think of it?
I'm sure he must think I'm a doofus.
And wait -- does this mean he Googled me? A reporter, taking the time to Google an editor? Why the hell would he want to do that?
And just as "surprised" was turning to "stunned" was turning to "horrified" was turning to Threat Level Red, and I was babbling my usual excuses -- "Well, yeah, I used to write more, but I had to kind of rein it in, you know, ethics and all, and these days I'm not quite sure what to say, it's all kind of silly and pointless, really" -- he butt in again: "Didn't I read some story about you and some terrifying experience in the water?"
And I was like, Whoa. He read THAT? From way back in the Stone Age of Blogging, back before TypePad and the shiny version of Blogger and Gawker and Wonkette, way back when not too many cats were paying attention, when the whole "What is blogging vs. journalism" was a fresh debate, and before Everyone Who Was Anyone had to have a blog, or they might as well not exist?
Dude. So first, apparently, he Googled me (or, a pal for some reason pointed him to me, which is even more unlikely). And then, he took the time to peek into my archives.
That is tenacity. (Not that I should be surprised, I guess, since he digs up information for a living and all.)
Then he goes on to say some rather complimentary things, and I'm turning all flushed and rosy, right there at my desk, and my Threat Level Red starts going back down to more like mood-ring blue-green. And this conversation just happens to coincide with another one of my crises of blogconscience, when I'm wondering, Should I keep it going? Or shut it down? Or just put it behind a password-protected wall and hope for the best?
The whole interaction plays out as if this one lovely man, one who writes for a living, no less, has for some reason been chosen as The One -- The One who was supposed to take his trusty little magical bellows and pump, pump, pump up my confidence to a level where it's finally registering again, at least a tad, to provide me with the answer: Keep it up. For a while longer, at least. Because you never know when some random person will read it and, somehow, make your day.
Just as so many generous and encouraging men and women have done before him. Almost as if there's some Spirit of the Internet who can read my thoughts and feel my doubt, and who knows when it's time to intervene through some mortal soul.
Is that you, Flying Spaghetti Monster?
