Among bloggers of my acquaintance, it was fashionable to ridicule the Times article [on obsessive bloggers]. The piece was another scrap on the heap of evidence demonstrating that the media remain clueless about blogging and the impulses behind it. At a Manhattan bar a week and a half later, bloggers were still mocking the article. “Oh, yeah, I’m gonna go home and blog,” a friend said. “I’ll post about being here with you guys.” Everyone laughed, and I pretended to join in.
I bought a round of drinks and tried to stop thinking about the twelve links I’d emailed myself earlier but hadn’t posted. After all, we were at a bar. Our songs had started to play on the jukebox. We were carefree and intoxicated and could not have cared less about blogging. Except that, unlike my friends, I went home at midnight and posted about books until 5 am. I might have stayed up longer, but my husband emerged from the bedroom and gave me the raised-eyebrow look that means, “Maybe you really should consider that Paxil prescription your therapist keeps recommending."
I awoke three hours later and hustled off to my day job. Scanning the news sites and Web logs to see what I’d missed, I slapped up three more posts and read through sixty new email messages before my boss appeared at the door.
“Do you have that article for me yet?” she asked.
In a single motion, I minimized Internet Explorer, opened the appropriate database and rooted around for the case she’d assigned me the previous afternoon. I hadn’t even looked at it. “Almost,” I said, “but not quite. It’s more complicated than I thought.”