November 12, 2008
I love blog posts that herald the demise of blogging. I mean no one would expect Ford to come out and say that peak oil marks the end of auto companies (even if it does) so why this self flagellation within our industry.
Most recently Paul Boutin wrote what is, admittedly, a quite interesting post on Wired. The crux of the post is that there is no point continuing to write for blogs, and less point in starting a new blog. Rich media, in the likes of YouTube, Flickr, Facebook et al have made it so much easier to post rich content that no one has time for words anymore. Additionally Paul contends that it’s actually easier to upload a video for example than it is to craft a well written blog post – yeah I guess if you’re a retarded, inward facing cretin who can’t form polysyballic sentences and who considers meaningful dialogue to be pretty much what Homer says on the Simpsons.
They don’t give Pullitzers for YouTube videos Paul.
Paul also contend that microblogging is the new form of communication par excellence and that 140 characters is sufficient to say anything one wants.
And what does Paul do for a living? Yes indeed he’s a journalist (one who uses more than 140 characters at a time) and what forum did he use to preach his vision for the future – you guessed it, a magazine cum blog post!
So sorry Paul but I disagree. I’ll continue to blog (both here and here), I’ll also write articles (with lots and lots of words) for the other dinosaur there, print media. And last but not least I’ll continue to enjoy evenings with a glass of wine, a wedge of my own Roquefort and a crisp, worn and leather bound copy of the most beautiful book ever written.
So I’ll leave you with a quote or two from the same, if your personal bandwidth extends past 140 characters that is!
Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton’s is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire. My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods; time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath–a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He’s always, always in my mind–not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being
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