I need more people to trade icons with on IconBuffet’s “Free Delivery”, if any of you are the free icon-loving type. I need to use up a serious stockpile of stamps if I’ve got anything in my collection that you want.
Not that I’ve really found anything to do with my 72 sets of free icons yet, but I’ve got some ideas brewing.
I was on a conference call today, and one of the Seasoned Journalists mentioned a concern about journalists blogging. Because journalists are supposed to be objective and blogs are supposed to be full of crap subjective, and journalism will die if reporters ever disclose that they have ever held an opinion about anything. Well, I tried to keep my mouth shut so that I didn’t say anything defensive like, well, the previous sentence.
Because I do get defensive. Because the internet has changed things. It’s made it easier to find things out, it’s made it harder to keep secrets, and it’s made my generation a lot less protective of our personal thoughts than previous generations.
And, damn, journalists are the most opinionated people I have ever met and I find the suggestion that they can convince anyone of their objectivity to be a bit of a farce. Maybe we can write objectively. But we cannot live objectively and I find it condescending to suggest otherwise. We’re humans like the rest of them.
But as to my personal experience as a blogger, it may be relevant to point out that that I am foremost a diarist. Sometimes that takes the form of long personal essays like this one. Sometimes it’s shorter silly self-parodies and letters. But I’m not a political blogger. I’m not an advocate of any particular cause or agenda. I have opinions and I don’t conceal them, but over the years, my readers have made it clear to me through their comments and emails that they read this blog for the stories and not the political viewpoint. And since the articles they’ve praised most have also been my favorites to write, I’m happy to serve their demands when I can.
When I started this blog (not my first), I was 17 and acutely aware of my fruitless struggle for identity.
I was completely green. I’d never been on a road trip with friends. I’d never traveled alone. I’d never been in love. I’d never let a boy talk me into something stupid. I’d never snuck out on the roof to gaze at the stars. I’d never gotten a speeding ticket. I’d never done anything my parents wouldn’t approve of. I’d never lived anywhere besides the house I was born in. I’d never had my heart broken. I’d never had any real sense of purpose.
Everything that I can claim to know about myself, I have learned since then. Using your voice is how you go about finding your voice. And while my blog does not define me, writing it these past several years has taught me much about myself.
A few years back, Lance Arthur provided a new take on why online diarists do what they do:
When I wrote about my boyfriend before, I screwed up because I didn’t talk to him about those things before broadcasting them here. I may be doing that again, but I don’t think so. However I can’t be sure, because my life is untangling and I sometimes forget what I have told anyone or asked or discussed and I do hate repeating myself.
Anyway, my point is that I couldn’t tell him why I did that, why I had posted words here rather than talked to him about them. So I asked my therapist why, and her explanation astounded and scared me more than a little bit. To paraphrase: “Everyone needs to ask the universe a few questions now and again. Some people call that prayer, some people call that meditation, there are different words and different methods but the goal is the same. We come to places we can’t figure out on our own, and even our friends and family can’t really help. So we ask the universe—the larger power, God, what have you. And I think your Web page, that act, that place, that’s you’re larger power. You launch the questions out there and sometimes you get a response, sometimes not. It’s the act that’s important. You’ve just chosen a unique and very public God to question.”
At the time, that blew my mind. Because it rang very true for me — and not just because I had my own angry-to-be-the-subject-of-a-blog-post boyfriend.
And of course not every blog post is a prayer. And not every blogger has this mindset. And there are gray areas and crossed boundaries when it comes to reconciling old-school journalism ethics with a culture of oversharing. But the idea that journalists should not blog seems like saying you should not eat apples if you sell oranges.
I’m not saying there’ll never be a conflict of interest. Should the city reporter blog his personal opinions on a city hall race? No. The general life rule of “don’t be stupid” still applies. But a blanket ban? Don’t be stupid.
I woke up this morning, tense from a dream where I’d been summoned with a “Katie, let’s talk” by a super-scary editor at work. And then when I was actually at work, I found a few more things to angst over (alas, super-scary editor is not just a figment of my dreams). And then I came home and sought comfort food to soothe my nervous tummy. It only made it worse.
So I threw off my work clothes and hid under a pile of blankets on the couch. Yay, Heroes and Journeyman.
When I was ready to write the day off as a prime example of Monday suckitude, I heard a meowing in the hallway. Looking through the peephole, I saw no one. I heard J, my across-the-hall neighbor, on her cellphone as she carried her laundry downstairs. And still more meowing.
I opened the door a crack, looked down and there was the cutest, tiniest kitten ever. As soon as I touched her she started purring. I let her in so I could put some pants on before going downstairs to find out if J had recently acquired a kitten.
This kitty was not timid at all. She immediately started exploring the apartment. Meow, meow, purr, purr.
Just before opening my door again, I considered that maybe I could just keep the cat. Maybe supernatural forces had sent her to me to make me forget about all the things that make me cranky. Who can stress out when they’ve got half a pound of fur nuzzling against them? Not Katie.
When I got downstairs, J rolled her eyes when she saw the kitten in my arms. Apparently Mary Jane (what the hell kind of cat name is that?) is a bit of an escape artist. But Mary Jane is also a foster kitten, available for adoption when she’s old enough (i.e. big enough to be spayed).
I very nearly got a cat a couple months ago. I decided against it for all kinds of good reasons.
But, oh, that little kitty loves me.
I would have to rename her though. I’m thinking Bowser.
I’ve been thinking that
it would be way awesome if
Al Gore was my dad
I had chocolate cake for lunch.
A slice of the most amazing homemade cake I have ever tasted.
I feel guilty.
I’ve been thinking that
it would be way awesome if
Al Gore was my dad
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