There’s nothing worse than someone keeping a journal or blog and having it go stale, so I’ve watched in horror during the forty day Lenten fast since I’ve had a chance to post. Things should be better in the next few weeks.
My guidance is Mark Twain, speaking in The Innocents Abroad, who lampooned blogging so accurately a short 139 years ago.
One of our favorite youths, Jack, a splendid young fellow with a head full of good sense, and a pair of legs that were a wonder to look upon in the way of length and straightness and slimness, used to report progress every morning in the most glowing and spirited way, and say:
“Oh, I’m coming along bully!” (he was a little given to slang in his happier moods.) “I wrote ten pages in my journal last night – and you know I wrote nine the night before and twelve the night before that. Why, it’s only fun!”
“What do you find to put in it, Jack?”
“Oh, everything. Latitude and longitude, noon every day; and how many miles we made last twenty-four hours; and all the domino games I beat and horse billiards; and whales and sharks and porpoises; and the text of the sermon Sundays (because that’ll tell at home, you know); and the ships we saluted and what nation they were; and which way the wind was, and whether there was a heavy sea, and what sail we carried, though we don’t ever carry any, principally, going against a head wind always – wonder what is the reason of that? – and how many lies Moult has told – Oh, every thing! I’ve got everything down. My father told me to keep that journal. Father wouldn’t take a thousand dollars for it when I get it done.”
“No, Jack; it will be worth more than a thousand dollars – when you get it done.”
“Do you? – no, but do you think it will, though?
“Yes, it will be worth at least as much as a thousand dollars – when you get it done. May be more.”
“Well, I about half think so, myself. It ain’t no slouch of a journal.”
But it shortly became a most lamentable “slouch of a journal.” One night in Paris, after a hard day’s toil in sightseeing, I said:
“Now I’ll go and stroll around the cafes awhile, Jack, and give you a chance to write up your journal, old fellow.”
His countenance lost its fire. He said:
“Well, no, you needn’t mind. I think I won’t run that journal anymore. It is awful tedious. Do you know – I reckon I’m as much as four thousand pages behind hand. I haven’t got any France in it at all. First I thought I’d leave France out and start fresh. But that wouldn’t do, would it? The governor would say, ‘Hello, here – didn’t see anything in France? That cat wouldn’t fight, you know. First I thought I’d copy France out of the guide-book, like old Badger in the for’rard cabin, who’s writing a book, but there’s more than three hundred pages of it. Oh, I don’t think a journal’s any use – -do you? They’re only a bother, ain’t they?”
“Yes, a journal that is incomplete isn’t of much use, but a journal properly kept is worth a thousand dollars – when you’ve got it done.”
“A thousand! – well, I should think so. I wouldn’t finish it for a million.”
Stay tuned for Mark Twain’s thoughts on Digg, YouTube, and Web 2.0.