During those nervous first months of grad school, I wrote in my blog sometimes for three or four hours a day—or night—instead of making time for social activities or exercise or sleep, or even schoolwork—in short, life. I felt compelled by some strange muse to push the blog envelope by including more and more private details about my life. It was like some wondrous Seussian contraption: I fed myself, like raw material, into the BlogMatic 3000, and out came a vivid, clever, sparkling artifact, so much more interesting and well-defined than my actual life as I knew it. I recall that even you and
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