Well, I did it. I beat the Whitmer family curse today by reaching my 55th birthday without having a heart attack. With a family medical history like mine, of course, I’ll always be living on borrowed time. But who isn’t?
My portentous family medical history is part of what compelled me to take a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Africa last year, and that trip is what inspired me to start this blog. Incredibly, that was more than a year ago. You know what they say: Time flies when you’re meticulously documenting a two-week vacation.
If you’re wondering why I’d bother to blog about the trip instead of just enjoying it, it’s mostly because I wanted my students to tag along. Ever since I was a little teacher, I’ve been unable to take a trip or even visit a museum without trying to find some way to bring that experience back into my classroom. In the late 1980s, for instance, I made photo excursions to Plimoth Plantation, Colonial Williamsburg, and Jamestown so I could create more engaging lessons on colonial America. When I taught Pre-Columbian civilizations in the 90s I went to Mexico, Guatemala, and Honduras. In the early 2000s I found myself teaching the Civil War; hence, trips to Gettysburg, Antietam, and Ford’s Theater. That kind of thing becomes ingrained habit after 30 years, so there’s no way I could go to Africa without teaching about it, too.
So that’s why I started the blog. Why I continued is still something of a mystery. You see, it became clear within just a month or two that very few of my students were reading my blog. It’s not that they lacked interest in the subject; they’re just not readers. They’ll happily listen to anything I have to say about my trips, and they LOVE it when I show them pictures. But when I suggest that they follow me online they grin and politely decline. Despite their adoration of the Internet, many middle schoolers feel that reading anything longer than a tweet constitutes an epic fail. And now even Twitter appears to be too text-intensive for most ‘tweens, who in recent years have shifted their demographic allegiance to Instagram. So what chance, really, does my blog have? TL;DR.
And yet I kept writing. Mostly to friends, I suppose. But who really has time to read about someone else’s adventure? It’s like inviting people to come over and look at all your vacation pictures, but worse, because you’re asking them to read all the captions, too. Long ones. I may owe some of you an apology.
I’m sure part of the reason I kept writing is also raw stubbornness. As I confessed in a previous entry, I’m a quitter by temperament. I’ve been in recovery for decades now, so quitting the blog, like quitting the trek, would have been falling off the wagon.
Speaking of which, blogging also held me accountable for reaching the summit. Try as I might, I couldn’t easily back down with the whole World Wide Web potentially watching. The blog was my tepid way of burning the bridges behind me, cutting off my own retreat. If Odysseus had only had an Internet hookup he would no doubt have blogged about the Sirens instead of tying himself to that mast. I’m sure of it.
No doubt, then, I’ve been writing this mostly for myself. What’s a blog for, after all, if not to “celebrate myself, and sing myself”? In fact, one can probably justify – maybe even romanticize – almost any degree of online vanity just by quoting a great poet, like, say, Walt Whitman. To wit: “I speak the password primeval” and “sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.” Why the hell not?
Truth is, these days we don’t need readers to be writers. The digital revolution has granted us amazing powers to publish our own novels, display our own photographs, record and promote our own music. We’re all so busy now being content-producers that we don’t have time to be content-consumers. We’re playwrights seeking an audience, artists courting patrons, preachers assembling congregations. We’re so busy posting our latest creations on the Web that we barely have time to “Like” each other’s work on Facebook, much less actually read it.
It cuts both ways, too. In addition to seeking an audience for our own artistic projects, we’re also ducking the ceaseless advances of all the other amateur writers, artists, and content-creators in pursuit of our limited attention. It’s like that well-worn stereotype of the Hollywood producer who’s relentlessly trailed by would-be screenwriters imploring him to read their scripts. But now we’re all that guy, politely fending off friends and acquaintances while at the same time trying to hand them our screenplays. “Hey, check out my blog,” we entreat each other. “Have you heard my new song?” “Seen my new video?” “Take a look!” “Have a listen!” “Check it out!”
In 1968 Andy Warhol famously observed that in the future we’d all be famous for 15 minutes. He failed to mention that we’d all be famous at the same time.
So who have I really been writing to for the past 13 months? Well, to you, I guess. If you’re reading this, then, by definition, I’m writing to you. Thanks for being there for me. I'm deeply grateful, whoever you are. Considering how easy it is to click away from a web page, you’re hardly a captive audience. No one is anymore. Under the circumstances, it’s an honor to think that I’ve been able to hold anyone’s attention for any length of time at all.
Your reward is that you may now stand down. This is my final entry; you are hereby relieved of duty. It’s always possible that I may resurrect WhitfulThinking for some future mission, but this particular project is complete. Mo' and I will certainly continue our adventures, but I don't intend to be blogging again for a good long while.
If you need me in the meantime, look for me under your boot-soles. Better still, come find me at the airport.
That’s where I’ll be. Passport in hand. Waiting for you.
My portentous family medical history is part of what compelled me to take a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Africa last year, and that trip is what inspired me to start this blog. Incredibly, that was more than a year ago. You know what they say: Time flies when you’re meticulously documenting a two-week vacation.
If you’re wondering why I’d bother to blog about the trip instead of just enjoying it, it’s mostly because I wanted my students to tag along. Ever since I was a little teacher, I’ve been unable to take a trip or even visit a museum without trying to find some way to bring that experience back into my classroom. In the late 1980s, for instance, I made photo excursions to Plimoth Plantation, Colonial Williamsburg, and Jamestown so I could create more engaging lessons on colonial America. When I taught Pre-Columbian civilizations in the 90s I went to Mexico, Guatemala, and Honduras. In the early 2000s I found myself teaching the Civil War; hence, trips to Gettysburg, Antietam, and Ford’s Theater. That kind of thing becomes ingrained habit after 30 years, so there’s no way I could go to Africa without teaching about it, too.
So that’s why I started the blog. Why I continued is still something of a mystery. You see, it became clear within just a month or two that very few of my students were reading my blog. It’s not that they lacked interest in the subject; they’re just not readers. They’ll happily listen to anything I have to say about my trips, and they LOVE it when I show them pictures. But when I suggest that they follow me online they grin and politely decline. Despite their adoration of the Internet, many middle schoolers feel that reading anything longer than a tweet constitutes an epic fail. And now even Twitter appears to be too text-intensive for most ‘tweens, who in recent years have shifted their demographic allegiance to Instagram. So what chance, really, does my blog have? TL;DR.
And yet I kept writing. Mostly to friends, I suppose. But who really has time to read about someone else’s adventure? It’s like inviting people to come over and look at all your vacation pictures, but worse, because you’re asking them to read all the captions, too. Long ones. I may owe some of you an apology.
I’m sure part of the reason I kept writing is also raw stubbornness. As I confessed in a previous entry, I’m a quitter by temperament. I’ve been in recovery for decades now, so quitting the blog, like quitting the trek, would have been falling off the wagon.
Speaking of which, blogging also held me accountable for reaching the summit. Try as I might, I couldn’t easily back down with the whole World Wide Web potentially watching. The blog was my tepid way of burning the bridges behind me, cutting off my own retreat. If Odysseus had only had an Internet hookup he would no doubt have blogged about the Sirens instead of tying himself to that mast. I’m sure of it.
No doubt, then, I’ve been writing this mostly for myself. What’s a blog for, after all, if not to “celebrate myself, and sing myself”? In fact, one can probably justify – maybe even romanticize – almost any degree of online vanity just by quoting a great poet, like, say, Walt Whitman. To wit: “I speak the password primeval” and “sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.” Why the hell not?
Truth is, these days we don’t need readers to be writers. The digital revolution has granted us amazing powers to publish our own novels, display our own photographs, record and promote our own music. We’re all so busy now being content-producers that we don’t have time to be content-consumers. We’re playwrights seeking an audience, artists courting patrons, preachers assembling congregations. We’re so busy posting our latest creations on the Web that we barely have time to “Like” each other’s work on Facebook, much less actually read it.
It cuts both ways, too. In addition to seeking an audience for our own artistic projects, we’re also ducking the ceaseless advances of all the other amateur writers, artists, and content-creators in pursuit of our limited attention. It’s like that well-worn stereotype of the Hollywood producer who’s relentlessly trailed by would-be screenwriters imploring him to read their scripts. But now we’re all that guy, politely fending off friends and acquaintances while at the same time trying to hand them our screenplays. “Hey, check out my blog,” we entreat each other. “Have you heard my new song?” “Seen my new video?” “Take a look!” “Have a listen!” “Check it out!”
In 1968 Andy Warhol famously observed that in the future we’d all be famous for 15 minutes. He failed to mention that we’d all be famous at the same time.
So who have I really been writing to for the past 13 months? Well, to you, I guess. If you’re reading this, then, by definition, I’m writing to you. Thanks for being there for me. I'm deeply grateful, whoever you are. Considering how easy it is to click away from a web page, you’re hardly a captive audience. No one is anymore. Under the circumstances, it’s an honor to think that I’ve been able to hold anyone’s attention for any length of time at all.
Your reward is that you may now stand down. This is my final entry; you are hereby relieved of duty. It’s always possible that I may resurrect WhitfulThinking for some future mission, but this particular project is complete. Mo' and I will certainly continue our adventures, but I don't intend to be blogging again for a good long while.
If you need me in the meantime, look for me under your boot-soles. Better still, come find me at the airport.
That’s where I’ll be. Passport in hand. Waiting for you.