Here is my small story for the "If you build it they will come" crowd. It is for the people who think all your Van Goghs and Emily Dickinsons and Franz Kafkas always find their way out to the world, and that all greatness is destined by its quality to be at least some small part of the recorded history of human culture.
The greatest blog ever
written was composed daily from 1949 to 1983 in the form of daily
letters. They were from a woman in Ohio to her sister in England. They
were funnier than I could ever hope to be, wise, witty, perfectly
sketched, and frequently compelling. The language, though fluid and
readable on an immediate level, was relentlessly inventive. It danced.
Small things you say today, ways you talk and write, would be
attributable to this treasure trove of letters, these dazzling essays,
these sketches of the heart of the universe and its most trifling
details. But they aren't, because only one person ever read these
letters: the person they were sent to.
When the woman, the
sister these letters were sent to, died, her family offered them back to
her sister, the writer. They had been treasured and reread many times by
the person they were sent to. They had been neatly boxed up in careful
order as they were received. But the sister did not want them back. And many years later the letters were simply thrown away.
Yes, these were
letters, and they never made it to the Internet but for this glancing
mention here. With the writer, the reader, and the letters all dead, they are a ghost. And though they weren't a blog really, the writing was exactly the same as what I mean by a blog. And it was the best blog ever. It dogs my steps. It haunts me. And like small gods and like great dreams and like enlightenment it belongs to a secret world we are forced to contend with. We are never there. No, no matter what I do, I am never there. I never can be and neither can you. We must do our best with here. All we can do is send our notes over to all majesty, to mastery, to small gods, to the fulfillment of our dreams, to enlightenment, and let them know how we're doing.
And hope that they are read and neatly boxed up.