Yesterday, during a haven’t-seen-you-in-a-year reunion adventure (involving a puppy, a car, a gorgeous hike, and a gas station clusterfuck), my friend Ivan called me out as only he can.

I was recounting my experience outing myself as “a blogger” at Goddard.  That’s where you made your mistake, he said.  You’re not a blogger; you’re a writer who happens to self-publish online.

Our friendly ensuing debate and the questions it raised have stuck with me.   Are there significant structural factors that differentiate bloggers from journalists, essayists, or memoirists?  Why do I call myself a mindful blogger?  And, conversely, why don’t I call myself a writer?  Why is it that, in the past six years, I’ve never really pursued publishing my own writing in any forms other than blogs?  What is that about?  Preference for a certain form?  Fear of rejection from more traditional, established publications?  Too lazy to write a column?  Or too enthusiastic to stop making posts and helping to shape online spaces?

There’s too much to sort through in one post, so I think this will become a theme of inquiry for the week.  Maybe longer.  One clue to the question of what distinguishes blogs as a literary medium came to me, a few days ago, through an unexpected messenger: a Buddhist quarterly magazine called Tricycle.

Zenshin Michael Haederle’s article “Dharma Wars” (illustrated with the delightful collage above) takes stock of the rocky dramas unfolding online in many American, mostly-convert Buddhist communities.

Continue reading →

From Webster’s definition:

Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,
Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells
In heads replete with thoughts of other men;
Wisdom, in minds attentive to their own.
Knowledge, a rude, unprofitable mass,
The mere materials with which wisdom builds,
Till smoothed, and squared, and fitted to its place,
Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich.
Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much;
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.

— Cowper