So I have changed the name of this blog from Words, Words, Words to Ubiquitous, Quotidian. Since this is only the second post in 10 months and only two people ever read that first post, I probably don’t actually owe anybody an explanation. Here it is anyway:
Words, Words, Words was a reflection of my ongoing malaise about how few words I was putting down in accumulation toward my stated but non-specific goal of becoming a Writer. Of course, a Writer isn’t really something one becomes. Writing is something one does. Sometimes getting one’s writing read is something that happens. Getting paid for one’s writing is a foolish dream. So Word, Words, Words was my tip of the hat to Hamlet who knew the score when it came to standing in a library surrounded by stacks upon stacks of words, words, words.
I only wrote the one post. Guilt and anxiety aren’t great motivators and don’t really inspire.
But I’ve been thinking a lot about my life and how lucky I am to be living in the early 21st century in the midst of profound, fascinating technological change. I’ve been wondering what bloggers might have written when Guttenburg pressed his first few pages and realizing that’s where we are right now. We are living in a time of radical innovation that will carry the human story forward in ways we cannot possibly see. It is fascinating to think about. I don’t want to look back 50 years from now and believe that however things turn out was the way that they always had to be. We don’t just witness history. We create history.
So that’s the idea behind Ubiquitous, Quotidian. Ubiquitous because the omnipresence of information and social connection through the Internet is a wonderous and profound thing. The ubiquity of the Internet has already had a profound affect on the way I think and the way I conduct my life. Quotidian because many of the most powerful affects of the ubiquitous Internet are small, everyday things that happen to add up to big, important, and interesting things.
So that’s the task I have set myself here. To keep a public journal filled with notes to myself so that 50 years from now I can look back and see the path we have taken, to be able to discern how we all got to wherever it is we will be looking back from at that time.
I hope some folks decide to read a few of these posts along the way. That’s always nice, but these were not written for you. They weren’t even really written for me. They are written for my 87 year old self and, perhaps, my 54 year old daughter to understand that life is a long line and that while, in hindsight everything seems predictable, nothing ever really turns out the way you think.