The most boring kind of blog post is the "why I haven't been writing" blog post.
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Scratch that. Sometimes, I bet, posts of this type can be gripping. I might have just awoken from a coma. Mark might have come home unexpectedly, weeks ago, with tickets and inn reservations for a lengthy hiking adventure in Scotland. I might have gone bankrupt and failed to pay my Typepad subscription on time.
But, no.
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If these posts are so boring, why do they exist? Why am I making one? I think these posts aren't for the reader, for a reader, for any reader. They are not really meant to be read at all. They are for the writer: they are the first interminable jog around the track after months on the couch. Barely an effort. The point is not to make an effort. Effort has been a barrier. This is just showing up, because showing up is the first step.
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I think some of what has kept me away is a feeling of being unable to add clarity to anything at all. The more experience one gains in any area, the more one realizes how little one knows; how very not-universal are the things one has figured out. That sometimes translates to a sense of not having something new or useful to contribute, especially in an arena where there are already so many voices clamoring for attention.
I guess you could say that I took some time off to listen to other people? That sounds more high-minded than it is. It hasn't exactly been intentional. I just kept finding, day after day, that I wanted to read a new person's opinion and ideas more than I wanted to generate any of my own.
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I would like to believe that my lapse into radio silence is a symptom of having passed peak Dunning-Kruger, as in the following comic, but extending from political discourse to all discourse:
That is, I would like to believe that I shut up, having finally realized that I don't know as much as I think I do, and that ever afterward I can restrict myself to writing things I actually understand something about.
There are a couple of problems with this scenario, one of which is that (whatever readers may think) I don't blog in order to get my great ideas out into the world, I blog in order to think more clearly. I always have done that, used writing to figure things out. The possibility that other eyeballs will see it is only a kind of accountability: I have to make some sort of sense, I have to write with some level of compassion and charity, or someone I respect will make fun of me for being wrong on the Internet.
Perhaps I have suddenly realized that there is no level of sense that will protect any of us for being pointed at as an example of Wrong On The Internet.
Perhaps I have suddenly realized that I do not, in fact, have anything like sufficient compassion and charity.
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A couple of years ago I really started examining in earnest the notion that persuasion is for most people an exercise in relationship. There's nothing wrong with trying to clearly articulate a position as a mental and logical exercise alone, or even in order to compile a useful resource for interested individuals; but persuasion itself, for most people, is mediated not by the persuader's logic but by the persuader's trustworthiness. That's trustworthy not in the sense of "reliably correct" or even "intellectually honest," but a more intuitive and emotional connection between persuader and persuaded: a sense of a real relationship and true, not fake, concern.
It's possible that becoming aware of this has stopped me up a bit, because I cannot sense in myself anything real that can connect, that can generate true concern and charity and compassion, beyond my immediate friend-circle. I mean, maybe I have it but I'm not sure, and I doubt I could fake it, and if I did fake it I would hate myself for it. If Love must be seen before Truth can be heard, well, then, what point is there for me to write? I can Love the people close to me, but invisible and imaginary potential readers are abstractions, and the only abstraction I can Love is truth itself. I second-guess myself a lot when I think about writing hard topics. Where I used to relish working out the connections and classifications, I find myself thinking: but why am I doing it? Am I just trying to win points in a game? Am I just trying to feel satisfied that my position is the most sensible? Is this in any way at all an attempt to communicate anything to a real human being? Am I thinking of my imaginary reader as a real human person, a subject, or just an object which I may use as an imaginary receptacle for my polished arguments (or worse, a scratching-post upon which I can polish them)?
I think that's where I am. I might have a lot to say, but what is any of it worth when it comes from me in particular?
I don't mean that I know it to be worthless. I mean that I don't know its worth, and the realization that I don't know its worth has suddenly clammed me up, made me want to figure it out, so I can put the proper disclaimer on it, whatever that is.
YOU HAVE EXPLAINED MYSELF TO ME. I am forever in your debt. Of that, at least, I am certain.
Posted by: Dorian Speed | 18 July 2019 at 09:35 AM
Same as the previous commenter. I'm just a random person from a random part of the world (um, hi!) who enjoys your writing so much that I decided to read through your archives. I'm already in February 2009, so you better keep writing :)
Kind regards from Slovenia!
Posted by: Ajda | 22 July 2019 at 07:05 AM
Aww. Thanks for your kind words!
Posted by: bearing | 22 July 2019 at 08:01 AM
"The more experience one gains in any area, the more one realizes how little one knows; how very not-universal are the things one has figured out."
This.
Posted by: joy | 22 July 2019 at 08:26 AM