According to Edna Ferber, “life can’t ever really defeat a writer who is in love with writing, for life itself is a writer’s lover until death – fascinating, cruel, lavish, warm, cold, treacherous, constant.”
Ferber died decades before the invention of the weblog. Yet I think she would have understood its underpinnings.
Sure, the Internet is crammed with cat videos and twee posts about OMG-so-cuuuute toddler birthday party themes. Yet it’s also a place for primal screams.
Writers deal with illnesses – their own or others’ – and grieve when the Lifetime movie ending doesn’t materialize. Parents of teens (or millennials who’ve moved back home) worry not just about money but about their children’s futures.
Young men and women struggle with money, careers and love, or with the lack of all three. Artists toil in obscurity and wonder whether any of this is worth it. Jilted lovers wail and/or plot revenge fantasies that they’ll never really commit.
The common thread? Sometimes, life really stinks – and sometimes writing helps us deal with it.