I read something today on another blog I read (which shall remain nameless. And linkless) that bugged me.
This person has been blogging longer than I have. She has more than one blogging project. She gets paid to blog. I think she might be a bit of a minor celebrity, in the oh-so-exciting blogging world. Writing her daily blog is her job (along with raising her kids). Most of the time, I sit here reading her blog, I get a little jealous at how many comments she gets and the paid ads and product placement, and then I think a little more about what her content has become (mostly about her two kids; one has some kind of un-diagnosed, un-diagnosable learning disability/or something. When she isn't writing about the exploits of her kids, she's posting photos. Really, maybe it's charming, and I'm just a Scrooge), and I think, well, okay, there's obviously a market for this, but I am not it.
(Confusing? Yes. Sorry. Send me a check and I might sort that paragraph out a little better.)
Don't get me wrong: I like reading about other people's experiences about things that have nothing to do with me or my experiences. I'm just not so sure I love reading about your kids. Not that I'm not interested, it's just that I'm not sure how fair it is. And truthfully, this person writes many, many words about her kids. So maybe I'm not that interested. But then again, my friend Julie writes about her children but she keeps their names private and writes about them with a much lighter touch than the other person I'm talking about. Julie's kids have a level of privacy. I don't think the other person's kids do.
Yeah, yeah, they're not my kids; I don't need to be comfortable with it, but still. It bugs. Look, I get it: parenthood is rough. Write about it, I think that's great. But it feels a bit shameless and exploitative sometimes.
I am not trying to be overly critical. I don't know her. Maybe she does hold some things back, what do I know? She has two kids and a life and experiences that are foreign to me. She has a hell of a lot of readers. She may well be the Maureen Dowd of the Mommy-Blogging set (you know, I don't really know what I mean by that, except that Maureen Dowd is another one of those writers I don't really enjoy yet can't stop myself from reading).
(By the way, when I said "Maureen Dowd," I didn't mean, "alleged plagiarist." I just meant, someone who writes compellingly, but who irritates me most of the time.)
Today's post was about a particularly trying time she (the blogger. Not Maureen Dowd) had recently while running an errand with her kids and her pet. She wrote strongly and with a lot of detail about her patience level and about when it all, exactly, went to hell in a hand basket, and then what happened. Almost all of the comments were like, "sorry but this is really funny and you're such a good writer and you'll think so too after a glass of wine." While I can't argue with the idea that alcohol and laughter can cure most everything, I think maybe these people missed the point. Sure, she could chill. Maybe she overreacted. The writing wasn't that great. Nothing truly bad happened. But the detail, the level of, what's the word? spleen with which she described her kid and what happened, I don't know, man. It was too much.
Sure, it was justified, but I think maybe totally justified to feel. And to talk to her real friends and family about, maybe. But to describe her kid and his tantrum or whatever it was for the whole world, well, I'm not sure.
OK, so we all agree that this person is probably an Expert Blogger and if I had a kid and other things to write about besides music and my cats and my lack of motivation, maybe if I was lucky enough to do it as well as she does, I'd be just as popular, with a paycheck for this shit to boot. Maybe I should have a kid just to, you know, have some new content and increase my readership.
As someone who has written about personal things way too much to a much smaller audience, it makes me wonder. I'm only exposing myself and my own faults and foibles (and maybe those of my cats). I don't think I've written anything that would embarrass anyone else (Stewart Copeland? Are you embarrassed by anything I've written?), but it's definitely something to think about.
I enjoy writing this blog, and I try to do so intelligently (or at least, amusingly, or at least, barring that, slightly amusingly), and I'm sure I tell you more than you ever wanted to know about me... but I'm not a member of any club. I don't do this for money, or fame, or fortune. Why do I do it then? Dude: I do it to write about Stewart Copeland and hope that he somehow finds me and reads the ridiculous things I've written about him and the way I feel about him and then he decides to propose to me and whisk me away to Italy (um, okay, whisk me and Patrick away to Italy; if that's how it has to be, fine).
It's nice that she was honest, and felt comfortable telling this uncomfortable story. Her hardcore readers and fans will stand by her. And I may read her again. But for me, it's more of a warning. If her level of openness bothered even me, the tell-all girl, well, I need to be more careful. I would hate to have even one of you turn on me. Or if you do, I'd hate to know about it. I'll be watching your blogs.
(And now the word "blog" is really blothering me. Blech.)
No comments:
Post a Comment