Smiling at the Tumbleweeds
I bookmark articles about ghost towns. I love abandoned houses and empty storefronts. My goal this summer is to get to Mockhorn Island.
I don’t know why I’m not equally drawn to untouched spaces; to open land and rolling fields without houses. I don’t know why I’m drawn to emptiness and decay. All I know is that when we’re passing a house with the roof caving in and a condemned sign on the door, I sometimes hear the kids sigh in the backseat and say something about how we’ll have to pull over.
“Mum loves things that are falling apart.”
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There was an article last week about how Snapchat has become a ghost town, and that emptiness is a welcome change to the faster pace of the rest of the Internet. The article is an ode to an Internet ghost towns.
But the article begins with a description of the early days of blogging and social media:
It’s difficult to believe now, but there was a time when the internet was nowhere instead of everywhere. Before the social internet had mapped so completely onto our social lives that attempting to separate the two or call life away from the internet “real” became a ridiculous endeavor, online was where we went to escape, to be unseen, to be nowhere.
And THAT is the Internet in my memory. I remember how carefully I used to hide my blog from people in my face-to-face world, and how exposed I felt when one informed me she was reading it. I remember how we used pseudonyms — there are still old bloggers that I only know by their online handle.
In 2006, I knew about and read a handful of blogs. After a few months, that number grew into the hundreds and the sound from all those stories was a happy buzz. It was exciting. We were a large, close-knit corner of the Internet. We knew each other’s spaces, and could talk about one another easily. Everyone at least knew of everyone else’s blog, and chances were that they read it, too.
And then the blogging scene exploded and suddenly the community was enormous. New blogs came and went. I started finding that people would refer to other bloggers and I had zero clue who they were. My face-to-face friends joined social media sites, and the wall came down between the online world and the offline world.
And now the blogging world is quieting down. It has been quieting down for a long time, though I don’t believe it will ever entirely disappear. In a few weeks, I will celebrate my 12th year of blogging. About a quarter of my life has been spent writing this site.
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Before something is built, it’s just a blank slate. And after something is gone, we describe the loneliness of that emptiness. The article has a continuous graphic of tumbleweeds.
Which is strange because I read about the same number of ALI bloggers that I did in 2006 or 2007, back when I knew hundreds (as opposed to thousands or tens of thousands) of bloggers. Back then, the space sounded so loud. Now it sounds so quiet. But it’s the same number of people, give or take.
When something is starting out, we focus on what could be.
When something is quieting down, we focus on what isn’t there.
But I welcome the tumbleweeds. Noting they exist means that we’re still here.
8 comments
I’m part of the silence, and it hurts a lot. I miss everyone, but rather than getting back to my blog, to MY space, I need to make it private for a while. I keep putting it iff, but I shouldn’t. I’ll be back eventually.
I miss you and so many others. ❤️
I love this. Returning after time away has felt lonely… many of the women I used to rally alongside have left, moved on… when I first started blogging it felt exciting with the blank slate you’re referring to. Now the emptiness, the quietness, does feel lonely. Interesting.
Beautifully written post!!! Congrats on sticking with blogging for 12 years. That is really amazing. I am in my 7th year and some days it’s hard to keep going. Other days I wish I could take a week off of real life to set up a month’s worth of posts. It’s all about balance.
I certainly miss reading many of the bloggers I got to “know” (virtually, anyway) while I was active in the IF community. However, as one of those who used to write regularly and no longer writes, for me, as it turns out, my blog was like a situational friendship: when the original reason that brought us together was gone (TTC), it slowly petered out. (Kinda like those friends we’ve all had who we used to talk with every day at work and hang out with often, until we changed jobs and realized that work was the main basis for the friendship.)
This post really touches me, for it explains how I feel, as well. I do miss those heady days of having so many new friends who were on journeys and inviting all the rest of us along. Sigh…
Lovely and evocative post, Melissa.
Did you read my Separate Life post about my wish to do a photographic series on NZ farm buildings in ruins? I see the appeal in the desolate and abandoned. I think it recognises that there was life there, and honours that, as well as honouring our existence.
In blogging terms, and certainly ALI blogging, as our journeys progress and as we resolve, the reasons behind blogging change, and our engagement and focus change too. I think that makes us look at things differently too. I also started completely incognito, and now – whilst I don’t blog under my name – I’m easily searchable from real life. I think that makes a big difference to how we blog and what we say too.
I’m glad you’re still blogging though. You’re about 5 months ahead of me in terms of continuous blogging (though not on one blog). Congrats!
I agree, it’s quieter than it used to be. I miss those heady early days of making new connections and discoveries, and I wonder how some of those who have vanished are doing now. But there are still some great bloggers out there! 🙂
This is so lovely. Bryce has a Pinterest board of abandoned and sort of beautifully desolate places, so you share that interest! Congrats on 12 years, that’s a long time to keep up a space when so many come and go. I love the connections I’ve made and am sad when blogs seem to stop in midair, suspended in time… This is a lovely post.