In 2017, I wrote about blogging with the wide-eyed idealism of someone who still believed in the democracy of the Internet. I was twenty-two, convinced that “the way Gutenberg gave everybody the power to read, the Internet gave everybody the power to write.”

**A Personal History of Blogging
Trying to Understand the Democracy of the Internet
blog.brennanbrown.ca

I.

It’s 2025 now. I’ve been blogging for a decade. The landscape has shifted so dramatically that when I search for “blogging”—if anyone even uses Google anymore—what surfaces is a grotesque parody of what we once called writing: Here’s how to start a WordPress (with my referral and affiliate codes) in order to write content with longtail keyword SEO and funnelling and integration and —

Oh my God.

The word has been hollowed out, its corpse animated by marketing speak. What we call “blogging” today bears no resemblance to its original intention. It’s not even the same word anymore.

II.

Don’t misunderstand me. Good writing still exists. Substack thrives as a “creator economy” focused on “newsletters.” Writers are finding their audiences, their voices, their revenue streams. Maybe this is semantics—maybe the medium doesn’t matter if the message survives.

But something fundamental is missing.

Something has been lost in translation from blog to brand, from writer to content creator, from having something to say to having something to sell.

III.

People point to short-form video—TikTok, Shorts, Reels, whatever the fuck you want to call them—as the ultimate democratization of the Internet. And yes, there’s something to be said for the frictionless nature of recording yourself with your phone’s camera, uploading in short bursts to an audience hungry for distraction.

You don’t need to know how to write. You don’t even need to know how to read.

But this is pure ephemera. You might get thousands of views compared to the dozens who read your written work, but only because people consume thousands of these tiny videos daily. How much is being remembered? How much changes us?

Short-form video content and the cynical, crony-capitalist version of blogging share the same existential problem: meaninglessness. A decay of our humanity, not an uplifting of it.

IV.

To have a blog—to have your own website where you write, to be part of the independent Internet—remains available to anyone. Anybody can become a writer, a reader, an intellectual. These are not gatekept, elitist intellectual pursuits, no matter how much mainstream propaganda pretends they still are.

Create something that lasts. A legacy.

To perform the practice and ritual of writing is to create an identity, to create tangible impact on the world. How many of your TikToks will your grandchildren view? In contrast, how much of your writing will they read?

V.

Consider the staying power of different media. Consider universal compatibility. Consider the lesser chances of rot and erasure.

Enrich yourself. Live slower. Take in words instead of drowning in the infinite pool of doomscrolled videos. Find solace in a community of people with intrinsic motivation to create and cultivate, rather than those who seek clout or money or validation.

VI.

In the dire, frankly terrifying state the world is in now, it needs thinkers. It needs people willing to believe they have something worth saying, a voice worth hearing.

The world needs writers more than ever.

Not content creators. Not influencers. Not SEO optimizers or funnel builders or growth hackers.

Writers.

People who understand that words, arranged with intention and care, can outlast platforms and trends and the endless churn of algorithmic feeds. People who know that in a world increasingly hostile to sustained thought, the simple act of putting pen to paper—or fingers to keyboard—becomes a form of resistance.

VII.

I think about Mr. Rehak, my fifth and sixth grade teacher who first introduced me to blogging. He was a huge geek back when it wasn’t cool to be one. Every day after lunch, we’d read for an hour to Miles Davis and Dizzy Gillespie. He’d try to engage our young, meager class in political and philosophical discussions.

He understood something that now feels revolutionary, giving children the tools to share their thoughts with a global audience was inherently valuable. Before the terms monetization and personal branding were even in nomenclature. For the simple, radical act of believing that what they had to say mattered.

That blog is still online, by the way. Our silly childhood musings, preserved in amber while millions of videos disappear into the digital ether.

VIII.

The creator’s intent doesn’t matter, I wrote in 2017. The audience creates meaning wherever they see fit. I still believe this, but I’ve learned to value intention more deeply. To understand that how we create—with what motivations, what hopes, what fears—shapes not just the work but the world that work enters.

When we optimize for engagement over enlightenment, for virality over veracity, for metrics over meaning, we don’t just change our art. We change ourselves.

IX.

Write anyway. Write without keywords. Write without funnels. Write without a clear path to monetization. Write because you have something to say, not because you have something to sell.

Write for the kid who might stumble across your words and realize that their thoughts, too, might be worth preserving. Write for your grandchildren, who will inherit a world drowning in content but starving for meaning.

Write because in a world of infinite scroll, the simple act of finishing a thought becomes revolutionary. Write because the democracy of the Internet has been buried under layers of optimization and automation and algorithmic mediation.

Write because the blank page is still the most radical space we have. A place where anyone can become anyone, say anything, change everything.

Write because the world needs writers now more than ever.

Not content creators.

Writers.

Originally posted here.