When people mispronounce words, I feel relief as I’m the Empress of Mispronunciation. If they make an occasional grammatical mistake—well, we’re all human. If they use a malapropism I laugh inwardly (OK, sometimes out loud as malapropisms are usually funny).
But when people call a blog post a blog I cringe. Sometimes loudly. I understand why they do this–to separate blogs from other forms of social media.
Personally, I try to, and usually fail to call a Facebook “post” a status. A tweet is a tweet is a tweet. (I hate them passionately).
But blogs were here first, and to me, they’re still the top of the heap. The first blog came out in 1997, a fact I have known for some time.
I know that because I wrote my first blog post on August 13th, 2004, twelve years ago today.
I never expected people to read my blog–I didn’t even name it until November 2004 when people began reading it. Oy did people begin reading it. Knocked my socks off.
At the time there were very few baby boomers blogging. Actually, people, in my personal life, thought it a horrible, dangerous, sick, ludicrous past time. I’m not naming names, but some people thought I would be killed by any blogger I met in person.
It amuses me that some of the first people mentioned are crazy about some of my original blogging posse. Everyone meets on Facebook that great social equalizer.
A lot has happened in the past twelve years. To me, the country, and the world.
First I learned what a link means in the blogging world. Had. No. Idea. I knew nothing about the mechanics and technical aspects about blogging.
I could spell HTML; I’m pretty sure that doesn’t count.
Now I know a bit. The technical aspect has become much easier. Host companies have actual telephone numbers instead of “we’ll contact you, don’t you even try…”, and I don’t live in fear that all my posts will go poof into the night.
My blog no longer has meltdowns. Thanks, Rena McDaniel–for everything.
I blogged for many blogs in my first years. I was a political blogger, and hated every second of it, but I think–hope I made a minute difference.
I won’t blog about politics but I’m often on Facebook where I try to walk away from anything political but like a pigeon find myself coming back to the dirt.
Five and a half years ago an editor at Psychology Today asked me to blog for them. I couldn’t say: “sorry my dance card is filled.” (As it was my favorite magazine in college I went a bit ballistic with joy).
I don’t post as often as many PT bloggers. I don’t write viral posts, but I’m pleased that I get a decent amount of page views, and have many steady readers.
This blog, with its 2,000 posts, and no order, is in the process of being ordered. I can’t tell you how often the blog would go down in the first five years, and I lost all my categories in one of the worst Courting meltdowns.
Lost all my stats in another meltdown, and didn’t contact the company because I was in a-I-just-moved-to-the-beach, and what does anything matter but my house renovation, and I’m losing and spending way too much money frame of mind. I care now.
I care now. But the stats are just a historical curiosity as blogging is about how relevant and fresh you are today.
Being around so long does come with some great perks that I hope to be able to tell you about in the fall.
I’m not sure if I was a better writer twelve years ago. I was a freer writer who didn’t care about consequences or what people thought about me. One of my big ambitions is to get that person back.
I also loved heat and humidity a lot more than I do today. It’s been a relentless summer. Another ambition is to relearn to love heat and humidity. I love it when the humidity settles into my bones, and makes my body feel as if it’s getting a hot stone massage without the massage. (I have a vivid imagination).
I think we’re beginning to be in a drought here in this small part of Coastal South Carolina but nobody has said the “D” word. Except for my plants
They yelled at me today, some did a slow burn, others drooped. Yet some of my plants were so brimming with life and good cheer, they made me feel slightly shamed, as if I were a neglectful mother who was waiting for plant protective services to pay a visit. This time of year they like to be watered twice a day at least. Ha!
And so I celebrate what might be my real birthday not with a party, cards, hundreds of Facebook greetings, people and a gift or two, but with my typing fingers.
And my way too many plants. I’m off to mist them now.