I can remember when the internet was an empty room, a journal that talked back. Some things only felt real to me if I could articulate them, hold them up for measurement and judgment by strangers whose opinions I found myself valuing more than my own.
I poured out words entry after entry and received occasional echoes in return. At one point I was posting as much as twice a day about everything and anything, all things me from complaints to observations I suppose I thought were humorous at the time.
Eventually I became convinced that blogging was not real writing, that time I spent musing over a life so transparently not worth the consideration I granted it would be better spent on prose and poetry. Real, non-self-indulgent things, which if I had any talent at all would surely come naturally. After many false starts and a few account switches I stopped blogging altogether and spent more time staring at black word document screens, and then gave up even on that.
Some words were better than none at all, and now I find my voice all but disappeared. With, however, a thesis statement, a clear and concise reason for each set of two hundred words neatly tagged, I have hopes that if not high are at least in existence.
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I just wanted to let you know I found your description of blogging very soothing and almost Thoreau-esque (Thoreau-ian??) in approach. Props