So its another year of jonandnic.com too. This little of hobby of mine, after only about 7 years, is finally starting to feel like it has a bit of value. I’m not in a terribly literary mood today, but I’m stalling on delivering the rest of the “big changes for 2008” news until it gets ironed out a bit, so here’s some ramblings around this here website of ours…
Last month 42% of the visitors to jonandnic.com came from the States, 33% from Canada, 13% from Europe, 3% from Australia, and my parents holding 1.08% from Asia (since Chad and Nicole are home in the States for a year.) A lot of other regions provided enough hits to make it on the map, but not enough to be statistically significant. Still we’re very glad you dropped by. There’s just a few parts of Africa there that aren’t visiting… but they can probably be excused for that until we get some more OLPCs over there!
We average about 100 visits a day, and 56% of you are new visitors (or got a new computer) since August.
Most of you stay for just under 2 minutes, and visit 1.5 pages per visit. Which, to be honest, is about how much time I spend on any given site.
Not that’d I’d ever be able to go the dooce route, and make a living on blogging, but I would be interested in hearing from you all, if you have any thoughts:
Why do you visit? What parts of the site do you like/find interesting? For those of you who lurk, and don’t comment, why not? Any suggestions on what we could change/update to make this site more interesting or worth visiting?
As for why this blog is here… well, I found this quote while reading a book called “North to the Orient,” by a very old-school blogger, which I thought perfectly summed up the answer to that question…
What, then, is this collection of chapters? How to explain it? Why did I write it? There is, of course, always the personal satisfaction of writing down one’s own experiences so they may be saved, caught and pinned under glass, hoarded against the winter of forgetfulness. Time has been cheated a little, at least in one’s own life, and a personal trivial immortality of an old self assured.
And there is another personal satisfaction: that of the people who like to recount their adventures, the diary-keepers, the story-tellers, the letter-writers, a strange race of people who feel half-cheated of an experience unless it is retold. It does not really exist until it is put into words. As though a little doubting or dull, they could not see it until it is repeated. For, paradoxically enough, the more unreal an experiences becomes — translated from real action into unreal words, dead symbols for life itself — the more vivid it grow. Not only does it seem more vivid, but its essential core becomes clearer. One says excitedly to an audience, “Do you see — I can’t tell you how strange it was — we all of us felt…” although actually, at the time of the incident, one was not conscious of such a feeling, and only became so in the retelling. It is as inexplicable as looking all afternoon at a gray stone on a beach, and not realizing, until one tries to put it on canvas, that it is, in reality, bright blue.
– Anne Morrow Lindberg, 1935
If I only we had adventures like hers to write about!