On The Death Of Jon Swift

My first reaction to reading Jon Swift was a deep, burning envy. He did what I wanted to do, the way I wanted to do it. The light touch of sarcasm, made weighty by the genuine anger and indignation behind it. The delicacy of the evisceration of his targets, like sliding in a knife which is almost unnoticed until it is all the way in--and then twisted. The deadpan humor. It was a thing of beauty, and I admired his writing just as much as I envied it.

We write because we must, because we love words, need to express our thoughts, and have this wonderful opportunity to do it on the internet, where there is a faint hope of finding an audience willing to read what we say. We love it so much we do it for free, taking valuable time that is needed for work and family. And we hope, despite all the odds, that we are appreciated and liked as much as we appreciate and like all the writers we read every day.

Blogging showed us that we live in a world of full of interesting, funny, learned, giving people, each utterly unique but still, somehow, all connected to each other through a desire to share and learn. People I never met taught me how to argue, reason, and empathize. And in return I hope I made them laugh or think. It's a small gift but it's the only one I have and I gladly give it to the world, because the world has given me so much in return. We crave acceptance, praise and recognition from others, but we are happiest when we are giving and sharing of ourselves, because it is then that we become as one, a Blogtopia of fools, villains and heroes, uniting to say goodnight to a valued and respected fellow citizen.