Blogging as Art

I’ve been a little frustrated with blogging lately. Ideas (at least recently) is difficult to come by, and sometimes putting my thoughts into words just seem so difficult. But I wanted to start writing creatively again, so I guess I need to stop making excuses and just write. I need to fight the predisposition to just lie in bed and not exert any effort, which gets worse the longer I don’t do anything, which makes writing an even more difficult exercise than before. But I also realize that sometimes I just really need to do it, regardless of the quality of the output; otherwise, I might as well pack up and stop blogging.

Which I have no intention of doing really. I love this blog. I’ve just been lazy.

The problem with blogging in general is that it is usually a one-person affair, and if you are incapable of sustaining a certain number and frequency of posts, then the online space just dies a natural death. Not death in the sense that you’d stop writing, that’s really up to you, but more of a lack of readers interested in your work. And to people who say that they don’t care about having readers, they just want to put their thoughts on paper, I say that’s BS: of course you want readers. Maybe not a lot, maybe just your friends, maybe even just one stranger or two, but you still want readers. Otherwise, having a blog is pointless. Why not just write in a journal? A blog is necessarily a public space, which means you aim to share it with the public (even if public meant a select group of friends). It’s similar to that philosophical question regarding trees and forests: If a blog doesn’t have readers, does it have a point?

And because a blog is necessarily a medium that requires readers, then perhaps some standards need to be put in place. Why do anything if you’re only going to be half-assed about it? Might as well give it your all. That applies to blogging, as with anything else.

Which brings me to my real point: that blogging can, and should be, elevated to an art form, in the same way that fiction, or poetry, or non-fiction narratives are considered legitimate art work. Some people have a tendency to look at blogs as hobbies, which isn’t a bad thing, but I feel that bloggers tend to limit themselves by thinking that a blog is only just a means to create something else, rather than the end result itself. I get that, and one of the primary reasons I blog is to practice my writing skills so I can get better. But it doesn’t mean that we should instantly assume that a blog as a medium is less than a poem, or a story, or a book, or a magazine. Some of the best blogs out there connect with me on a fundamental level, whether psychological, or emotional, or spiritual, and who is to say that that connection is less than valid simply because it’s made in a blog? When the aim of your work is to connect with strangers on an essentially human level, where does the hobby stop, and art begins?

It’s interesting how similar the aims of artists and bloggers can be. And those aims are, at their core, based on a love for the act of creation.

So this is my proposal. I suggest that bloggers stop thinking of blogging as less than any of the other more mainstream art forms out there. We are all artists, whether we accept the title or not. We create and we destroy as well as any other. Blogging can be the future of art, and we, the bloggers, will determine its success or failure.

Featured photo taken here.

Failure and Success

Here’s how I ended up in law school: I lost a bet with my dad. I told him that if he helped me finance a small business and it doesn’t work out, I’ll study law as a back-up. He agreed. The business failed, so I found myself taking an exam. Obviously, I got in.

Please don’t read too much into what I’m about to say, but I’m really not accustomed to failing. I’m one of those people who never had to try hard to excel. And in those few instances where I really did my best, I usually came out on top. The fact that the business failed wasn’t that big of a deal for me because, at least this was what I thought; first, I didn’t really try, and second, I felt that if I really tried, it would have been successful. I figured, whatever, it doesn’t count.

Besides, I really had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, and lawyering seemed as good a job as any.

When I started, I thought it was going to be a piece of cake. I’m sure that the other 249 students felt the same way too. Which was why we were all so shocked. At the end of the first year, almost 50% quit, or got kicked out.

Here’s the thing. The first lesson law school teaches you is how to handle pain. Mind-numbing excruciating pain. Physical pain, in the form of headaches and ulcers because of sleepless nights and skipped meals due to non-stop studying. Psychological pain, because the professor will make you feel like an idiot for every mistake you make, and you’re bound to make a mistake each and every day. Emotional pain, because each day is a battle between your sense of worth, and the constant pressure to do better. In law school, there is a tendency for you to be defined by your grades. The school will not look at you as a person who is artistic, or interesting, or charming. It can only see you as that guy who failed Obligations and Contracts, or that girl who got a perfect score in Negotiable Instruments. It’s very difficult for a normal person not to question his significance when every day they give you a number as a yardstick for your value. “Here, you’re 74, the guy who almost passed."

There’s a reason why half of the first batch of law students leave or get kicked out; not everyone can handle it.

“Sleep is for the weak,” one professor said, and we believed him, at least when we were freshmen. We never slept. We had no choice, there was too much that needed to be read, or written, or understood. Each morning I woke up wanting to quit.

But I didn’t. Which surprised me to my core. How can the perennial quitter, that guy who never failed because he never truly attempted anything, stay the course for something this difficult? It was mind-boggling.

But this is where it gets weird: the more difficult the course got, the more I wanted to finish it. It became an obsession. Every morning I woke up thinking “fuck I want to quit,” and then I’d change my mind right after. Against all odds, it became a dream. I plodded on, with 3-4 hours of sleep, a couple of Red Bulls, and a Venti Caramel Macchiato everyday. I was miserable, but I wanted it so badly the idea of failing was unimaginable.

It came with a lot of sacrifices. My then-boyfriend broke up with me. I fought with my friends. I barely saw my family. My social life was practically nonexistent. And my already short temper was made even shorter. Every day, I blew up for no reason at all. I almost lost my best friend.

And why sacrifice so much? Why would I put myself in a situation where I could fail in the truest sense of the word? Why would I put my heart and soul into something so badly that I sacrificed so many other things that were also important? Why would I do that?

The answer was simple: Because I wanted to, and it was my dream.

The idea that one can achieve something significant or important in one’s life, grabbed me. So I took a chance. I’m still taking that chance. It’s very possible I will fail, but I will make sure, at least to the extent of my capacity, that it will not be because I did not give it my all.

There are successful people, and then there are successful people. I want my success, if I would be given the opportunity to reach it, to be defined by the idea that I took a risk, and won. That I poured my heart into something I really, truly thought was important, and I managed to come out on top. I don't want my success to be an accident. Success, without the real risk of failure, is not success at all.