Over the last few weeks, I’ve read a number of different blog posts from many different people, all saying roughly the same thing. “Oh, now that dickhead is running Twitter, I’d best start updating my personal site again.” Some of them are more considered than others. Indeed, a fair few of them make some extremely good points.
And yet every time, I have the same reaction. A peculiar combination of hope… and my eyes slowly rotating to the back of my skull.
Now, look, I admit it. Part of the reason for this is because I’ve been writing on Dirty Feed for well over a decade, and writing consistently online since 2003. The idea that you should own your words, and not just rely on social media, has been talked about for years, well before Musk got his wrecking ball out. But this line of thinking doesn’t really get you very far. The person who realises everything at the earliest possible opportunity would be some kind of superhuman indeed.
No, there’s another reason for my eye-rotating antics. Let me give an example of one particular site which I’ve read recently.1
Yesterday, they did a brand new post, stating that they were going to start blogging again. This was their first new post in nearly two years. Their previous posts, from early 2021, were about the following topics:
- Procrastinating with their writing.
- A long-abandoned manifesto for their blog.
- A short piece about Substack.
- The software they use for their writing.
- How their writing workflow doesn’t work any more… which explains why they aren’t writing.
- And finally, another post which promises some more writing, at some point.
Now, I’m going to be absolutely fair here: the blog I’m talking about above does have some self-awareness about all this. They know it’s silly. But that doesn’t stop it being a perfect catalogue of writing about the possibility of doing some writing, and then not really doing any writing. It’s an utter waste of time.
Or, as I called it once, pretend blogging.
* * *
Here’s what I think the problem is with a lot of this stuff. I’m not convinced that a lot of people who do all this truly want to write online, or maintain a personal site. At least, not any more, not in 2022. Life has moved on, and they’re busy.
I think they merely feel they should write. They feel they should write because of a sense of idealism. Idealism in terms of celebrating the open web, in some nebulous sense. Or in simply resenting what Twitter has become, and not wanting to be part of it any more, so why not write a blog instead?
But idealism doesn’t always get things written. In fact, it often seems to result in blogs which contain the following:
“I must write again!”
[six months later]
“I must write again!”
[six months later]
“I’ve just relaunched my blog!”
[six months later]
“I must write again!”
Don’t get me wrong. I want to celebrate the open web. I also hate Elon Musk. But neither of those things are truly why I write. I write because I have things to say. I write because I want to discover things about old TV I love, and then I want to share them with people. I write because when I don’t write, I get grumpy and upset.
I write because these days, it’s impossible for me not to write.
Write if you wanna write, podcast if you wanna podcast, video if you wanna video. But whatever you do, do it because you want to express yourself in a certain way, not because you feel obliged. Life is too short to do things in your spare time you don’t need to, just because you feel you should do. If you don’t want to do it, you are absolved. Do some charity work instead. That’s much more useful.
If you’re not writing for money, then make sure you are writing for love.
* * *
But I don’t want to finish 2022 with something negative. If you really are looking to do some proper writing online next year, and you’re looking for some advice, then here is what I suggest.
Don’t worry about writing every day. In an ideal world, that would be brilliant. We are not in that ideal world.
How about publishing something every week? Again, that would be amazing. If you can manage that, then brilliant. But I spend a lot of time writing Dirty Feed… and not even I manage a post every week. It’s my aim, sure. And I still can’t quite achieve it. Life is hard.
But I’ll tell you what you what is more easily achievable: one post a month. If you truly do want to write a blog, then show up every month to do it. What’s the most interesting thing you’ve thought about in the last 30 days? Write that. And at the end of the year, you have 12 monthly thoughts that you’ve published. 12 thoughts, thrown out into the world. Not so much work that it became intimidating. And yet enough that it was worthwhile doing.
I have one other piece of advice. And that is: don’t get locked into thinking that you can only write one kind of thing. One particular blog, which last updated in April 2020, had this to say in their last post:
“I’ve been telling myself to journal more. But even though I value journalling and respect those who steadily practice it, I’ve always found it hard to form the habit for myself. However, I don’t want to give up… So I’m making an effort to contribute by sharing what’s happening in our little corner of the quarantined world.”
To which my only reaction is: why journal? Why just share what’s happening to you? Of course that’s a valid use of your blog, but is that truly the only thing which matters?
Cast the net wider. You know what my modus operandi is now: investigate some stupid production detail about one of my favourite TV shows. But on here I’ve also rescued an old BBC Micro game, explained why I love radio jingles, and even tried prose. And other people are doing even more interesting things.
You don’t have to write online in 2023. But if you truly want to, rather than just feeling you ought to… don’t limit yourself. There’s an entire world out there. Grab something – old, new, borrowed, or blue – and poke that bastard until something interesting falls out of it.
See you in 2023, when as usual, I’ll be doing just that. Happy New Year everyone.
I’m not linking to it, for obvious reasons. It’s still Christmas. ↩