“I mean, it’s not really a form of art, though, is it? It’s a series of thoughts that don’t follow one another elegantly. It’s not what I meant to do.”
“You still like the novel, don’t you?”
“I do. I like the form of a novel. A beginning, a middle, and an end. Things happen. Feelings are evoked in a chain the author made. I like the idea of dictating a specific order of thought or feeling to the reader.”
“Is that right?”
“Fuck you. You know what’s funny? The best novels dictate the order, but not the actual thoughts or precise feelings. The best novels leave that up to the reader. That’s art.”
“But if the novel is an art form, and haiku and free verse are art forms, why can’t the weblog be a form of art?
“Seriously? There’s no reason it couldn’t. They just aren’t. There’re lots of different kinds of weblogs, and some of them are written by profound people with a lot on their minds. And their weblogs can have art in them, but the weblog itself is just a log. At best, it declares that time passes. That’s what it does at best.
“I started one as a sort of idea file. I thought it would be nice to put my ideas in one place, where I knew I could get at them. It was always with an eye toward the day when I could use those ideas in a novel, maybe in a conversation in a novel.
“But that day hasn’t come yet, and I’m starting to think that blogging has put that day farther into the future than it was before. So I can only speak from personal experience, but, if anything, blogging has been an anti-art form for me.”
“Are you trying to depress me?”