The review for the movie "Julie and Julia" said something about how the blogging part of the story was completely self indulgent.
Well...sh'yah...blogging by its very nature is self indulgent. I mean, doesn't the reviewer understand that? Blogging is a bunch of words put together and then published onto the Web in hopes that millions of people will read it and relate, and then respond in the form of a communal commentary, which will immediately result in odes of praise and/or controversy, but either way, it's a ploy for attention.
It's also a way for us fledgling hacks to get published on the Interwebz. When anybody finds our scrawls, we react a little like Steve Martin in "The Jerk": The new phone book's here....the new phone book's here....I'm somebody!!!!
It's vanity. All of it.
Traditionally, however, we think of vanity as someone being especially devoted to his or her appearance, similar to the myth of Narcissus who fell in love with his own image.
And yet, by looking at me, you'd wonder if I'd gazed into a mirror today. How could I possibly be labeled as vain with runaway hair like that? Can't I see that my pants aren't neatly pressed, my tee shirt has a tiny bleach stain on the right shoulder? My accessories are wrong, my shoes are too comfortable and my makeup is smeared again.
It is?
Curiously enough, I don't often look into mirrors. I can't step outside of myself to view my appearance objectively. Never could. That's why pictures of myself shock me. Really? That's how I look? Gah....
My oldest, kindest friends tell me what I want to hear. Other people search my appearance for somewhere pleasant to rest their eyes. Still others look for faults and focus on them. If I could feel a physical sensation equivalent to what they were doing, it would be as if I were picking a scab that wasn't quite ready to come off. It's not bleeding. Not yet. But it's tender and itch-provoking just before the pain hits.
I hold their gaze but a part of me suddenly sees what they're seeing, as if I'm able to read the thought patterns behind their eyes. Frizzy hair. Bushy eyebrows. Runny mascara. Shiny face. Bare lips. Front tooth harbors an errant raspberry seed husk. Big pores. Ill-fitting top. Tangled necklace. Baggy, wrinkled trousers. Overweight.
And then I realize that I'm projecting my own thoughts onto them. A score of negative images amplified and broadcasted drift unwelcome into my head. Are certain people really thinking all of this?
Of course not. It's not them. It's me. And it's vain of me to believe they spend any time at all thinking of me in such details.
3 comments:
In that light, I'd say all writing is vanity. No matter the medium. You must have some sense of self in order to put your thoughts down on paper. Hell, the cave drawings were vanity. All music is vanity. All art. All creative endeavors. Why single out blogging? It's silly, really.
The activity itself isn't what is vanity. It's my preoccupation with what others may think about the activity is strikes me as problematic.
Stranger still is my own ignorance of reality until I see it reflected through another person's perception that creates my discomfiture.
A critic said blogging is self-indulgent? That's hilarious.
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