Sarah's Books - Used & Rare

I am awaiting the arrival of the fridge repair man, for the second Friday morning in a row (this time, I am confident, he will prevail over the resident deep freeze gremlins), and thus find myself with a bit of time on my hands.  So here is another post close on the heels of the previous one.  On my mind:  the writer of a blog I read from time to time recently posited that blogs which are not ironic or tongue-in-cheek are embarrassing to read.  I paraphrase here, but in essence the writer couldn't believe that someone would take him- or herself seriously enough to write a blog as if he or she were simply writing about real life to a friend.  Why would anyone do such a thing?  The writer went on to say that people who did write blogs, in this manner or otherwise, were essentially egotists with ulterior motives, presenting tidied-up versions of themselves, and that such writing is ego-driven and hence inherently suspect (since solely-ego-driven action always has a purpose, usually nefarious).

I have to wonder how many books this blog writer has read.  Because long before the advent of the blog, there were these things called books - you know, narratives written by real people, edited to make particular statements about life, both truthful and imagined.  Full of information on all subjects under the sun.  And certainly many authors are egotists, but goodness me, how does anything ever get accomplished in life, by anyone, other than by a real person taming that egotistical voice, even putting it to work, and getting on with the project at hand, whatever that might be?

But those are books, and this is about blogs, and having an online presence.  And what to write about, what to tell.  In other words, how much information is too much information, in a mere blog?  I write about a lot of stuff here, and yesterday's weepy post about overcoming my painting malaise was, for me, balanced right on the cusp of too much.  Should I have just told it to my diary instead?  (I did, as a matter of fact, but in much greater detail, I really really like to keep diaries).   Well, I decided to write some of it here too, because I like to write letters to friends, about reading, painting, the weather, real life, whatever's happening.  And as you know, I realllly like to talk about great books.

But to return to the nameless blog alluded to in the first paragraph, now that I have strayed so far from it:  it is itself ironic and tongue-in-cheek, and is written under a pseudonym.  So I'm taking it with a grain of salt.  But still.  I'd say most of the blogs I read regularly deal with the minutiae of real people's actual lives, and that's exactly why I like them so much.  What say you, if anyone isn't too embarrassed to read this and then leave me a comment on the topic?  Which do you prefer, in entertainment, literature, blog-writing, or otherwise - real life or the made-up persona?  One might say, memoir or fiction (or fiction posing as memoir...)?   An ironic blog or a sincere one?  A carefully-edited slice of life or too much information?   Having read the Diary of Samuel Pepys, and Montaigne's Essays, and Byron's Letters and Journals, ad infinitum, it should be evident which side of the coin toss I prefer.  Although in all honesty, I can sometimes say both!

Where oh where is that fridge guy.  I have a painting to finish today.