Blogging is just about twenty years old. Though the word ‘blog’ was coined in 1997, there were just 23 blogs in 1999. The figure leaped to 50 million by the middle of 2006. That was a phenomenal growth, no doubt. The most popular ones among the early blogs dealt with politics. Slowly every subject under the sun made its appearance in blogs.
I would become a Yogi Aditynath if I decide what bloggers should write about and what they should not. I would be the last person to go around burning blogs or anything at all that does not suit my taste. However, I would certainly expect at least one thing while visiting any blog: it should give me something, something worthwhile.
Once blogging became popular, just about anyone became a writer. Even illustrious poets like Shelley could not find publishers initially. Shelley paid for the publication of his first book. Bernard Shaw who won the Nobel Prize for literature published many of his plays himself. Many books which became best sellers eventually were initially rejected by publishers.
Getting published was quite a tough job. Blogging made it easy. Too easy. Hence everybody – well, almost – became a writer. But writing is not everybody’s job. A writer must give something to the reader to think about. Writing is about ideas. It’s not just putting words together. The reader must gain something. At least something to poke his imagination.
A lot of blogs fail to do that. But a lot more blogs do offer fantastic stuff. Apart from writing, there are excellent photographs, paintings, informative pieces, and so on. I love those blogs which make me think, which provoke me, which invigorate my imagination, which soothe my soul or at least tickle the funny bone. But, as I already said, I am no Yogi Adityanath. I won’t ever decide what others should do with their blog. If I don’t like a blog, I stop visiting it: that’s it. I won’t go around shooting moral shit on others.