The Finch Formerly Known As Gold

30 May 2005

Random hiss levels

It's "so much noise," says Jeff Brokaw as he folds his tent and steals away into the night:

Bloggers themselves, for the most part, have gotten boring. A good blogger needs at least one of these two things: kick-ass writing talent, or voluminous content. Most bloggers, sad to say, are just not that interesting as writers, or, not that voluminous as content providers. Think about it. If they were, you would only need to read three or four bloggers every day instead of 15 or 20. There are rare exceptions to this, of course. Hog on Ice. Ace of Spades. Orrin Judd. Tony Woodlief, Lileks and American Digest. A few others. But mostly, it's a part time gig, and it shows. Which is OK, I guess, since people do have lives to lead and mortgages to pay. But I really think we are kidding ourselves if we think most of this bilge amounts to anything important, that will stand the test of time.

For some reason, this made me think of American composer Charles Ives, who earned his keep by selling insurance and writing music in his spare time. His "part time gig" won him a Pulitzer Prize in 1947.

I don't think for a moment that anything I've written is much more than pop ephemera, nor do I envision that I could make a living with these words of mine. If anything, I lean toward Thoreau's thinking:

I too had woven a kind of basket of a delicate texture, but I had not made it worth any one's while to buy them. Yet not the less, in my case, did I think it worth my while to weave them, and instead of studying how to make it worth men's while to buy my baskets, I studied rather how to avoid the necessity of selling them. The life which men praise and regard as successful is but one kind. Why should we exaggerate any one kind at the expense of the others?

And I don't pretend that I'm in the same league with the fa