It kind of sucks. No one takes you seriously.
Bloggers are narcissists. Bloggers can't write. Blogger books suck.
Yep.
If I had to divide the internet up into more easily digestible chunks--and of course separate myself from the aforementioned stigma--I'd say there's two types of bloggers: those who get into blogging to get published, and those who are endlessly fascinated with themselves. Sometimes the bloggers who are part of the latter group get book deals, and endless fascination with oneself, minus talent, minus self-awareness, minus an interesting life equals a bad book. No one cares about your pap smear. No one gives a crap about your credit score. Why would anyone care about the designer labels in your closet? Group one is writing about the skeletons in theirs.
I sure hope I'm part of group one.
But I don't get upset when people call me a "blogger," the same way I don't get upset when I am called "bisexual." I don't give a shit when I'm called "straight" or "Caucasian," though I'm technically neither of those two things. I don't care if I'm labeled "angry." I don't mind if you lump me in with Tucker and his crew. If you feel like calling me a masochist, go right ahead, and if you think I'm an alcoholic, feel free to think so. You want to call me "anti-chick-lit?" I don't care. Seriously, I'm fine with it. Whatever floats your boat, so long as you keep reading.
Its part of human nature isn't it? To break meta concepts down and better define our world, cultures and subcultures, genres and subgenres, tiny easy bite-sized pieces you can pop in your mouth. I wonder if bloggers will mean enough to the future of art that the distinctions will matter. I'd like to think so.
Posted by The Bunny at 3:56 PM