“Blogging, above all else, is conversational. It is social. It is networked. There are two key features to the blog: links, and comments. Fail to include either, and you’re talking to yourself.”

I agree with Paul that blogging is social. But, by failing to include links and comments, are we really “talking to yourself”?

Nah. This seems a very technocratic definition. After all, journalist Paul Carr’s blog is undoubtedly a blog, but has no comments (for reasons he explained here). Marketing guru and author Seth Godin only does trackbacks, not comments, on his very popular (and influential) blog for reasons he explained here. One of the fathers of blogging, Dave Winer, hasn’t had didn’t have comments on his main blog for years. Winer, an often hectoring voice online, was left open to accusations of not taking what he dished out. [Update: as pointed out in a comment here, Dave does now have comments. Mea culpa.]

So what’s missing?

I’ve long said, without really explaining myself, that often blogging is, really, the first form of journalism born of the web. Blogging has changed both the way we think about creating a piece of digital journalism, and the way that piece of work is digested after we’ve clicked “publish”.

It’s probably time to explain myself.

You see, when we decide to use facts to describe or discuss an event, issue or idea, it’s reasonable to say we’re producing journalism. And I’d contend that bloggers often do just this. And I’d further contend that the best bloggers are going into this with their eyes open; they have a keen awareness of at least four factors (I’m sure you can think of more) which make their kind of work different from, say, print journalism, or broadcast, or anything else.

Let’s take a quick look at the four factors, and how they change the end product.

• A story will be commented on. Journalism has always been discussed, if it had any importance at all. But the internet brings together people who really know what they’re talking about, wherever they are. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, their thoughts will appear in comments under your article. And, if they do, you may be reminded of what Dan Gillmor said, five years ago, about readers knowing more than you.
If you’ve done well, they’ll only be debating finer points or offering more information or context. Even praise. But if you’ve written rubbish, they’ll be there to put you right.
You can turn the comments off, but you cannot stop that informed discussion taking place. It will simply move elsewhere. I think Paul and Seth, from my examples earlier, realise that.
The impact of this: stories may be more fair and less conversational (to avoid needless confrontation), may be more solidly researched (to avoid embarrassment), may be better sourced (to support an argument). Everything is written with an important truth in mind: the subjects of a story and the expert readers may bite back, and have the best tools in history to do so.

• A story sits within an ecosystem. Stories don’t live by themselves any more. There’s little excuse not to link to online sources, but even if content fails to include links it is not immune from links’ power. The best blogging shows us how links increase transparency and build trust by showing where a fact came from.
Linking confers authority on the linked-to – we all know how Google works, right? – but it’s less often noted that the linker gains authority too, in a less direct way. Example: not all readers will follow the link, but more savvy readers might simply be reassured it is there (and mouseover it, to see where it leads).
Linking out can also win new readers looking for a trusted guide to take them through the welter of information out there. This is as predicted in 1995 in what, as my regular reader knows, is my favourite digital journalism essay.
The impact of this: journalism becomes more accountable, as readers start to expect – and get – more precise attribution of facts and quotes. It’s no longer enough to tell us what you know; ideally, you show us how you know. Meanwhile, a new form of almost entirely link-based digital journalism, as energetically evangelised by Jeff Jarvis, Scott Karp and others, gains currency and audience. Link journalism should also be cheaper than other kinds. This may be a growth area through the credit-crunched journalism world in 2009.

• A good story will be debated elsewhere. Partly related to the ecosystem point above; bloggers know their best work will be the work that gets dissected across the web, point by point. That provides a strong incentive to make sure it’s correct or, at least, well-argued. It’s hard to retract, clarify or say sorry once your work has gone viral.
Blogging brought about the interest in tracking that conversation, and spawned some of the tools to help do so – for instance, Technorati and trackbacks. Two imperfect technologies, I know, but influential I’m sure – we can now see exactly what people are saying about our work, and gauge its reach.
The impact of this: stories have always had a life beyond initial publication, but that life has now become much bigger in scale and over time. It’s also more trackable even if we, in publishing, are still struggling to properly document it. But that’s another blog post, I think. For now, we need to be aware of that afterlife stories now have, intervene in debates hosted in places not our own, and on occasion use it to inform our work next time.

• Debate is imperfect. I’m being polite – rather than saying blogging brings a sudden awareness that some people are halfwits, or bullies who deliberately and dishonestly look to distort what you say. Let’s just say grand, open, public debate is sometimes an inefficient way to get to the truth of a matter.
The people brought together to comment on your work may not, of course, really know what they’re talking about at all. Indeed, they may be the least qualified buffoons ever to have opined on your given subject.
‘Twas ever thus, down the pub at least; it’s just that the web makes it very obvious to see all these imperfections, and that can appall those who have, somehow, managed to live in more civilised worlds until now. But there’s still an impact here; trolls have a chilling effect. Unregulated, this distortion can distract and dissuade people with interesting things to say. It remains a challenge to create troll-proof online spaces. We need to work out better ways to deny the halfwits a platform, while maintaining and enhancing that platform for the best voices.

There; four factors. But the real legacy of blogging is that we now understand that when publishing online – blogging or not – we have no choice as to how social, how “webby” our work becomes. As long as we publish digitally, we will be discussed. Our work will always be social, unless what we produce is so narrow or lacking in interest nobody gives a damn. The platform doesn’t matter. Comments on or off, links out or not, trackbacks enabled or not, Vignette or WordPress or Tumblr or Twitter or handcoded, hardcore HTML… none of that matters.

Soon, we’ll always have the blogging mindset when we’re working online. The market will demand it; readers will be baffled if we don’t link to our sources, and view us as one would a screaming lunatic in the street if, online, we preach or hector without – at least – a very precise understanding of what we’re talking about.

It’s a world that calls into question lots of journalistic givens – not least the value of being a non-specialist journalist. It’s tougher to be a columnist, too, unless you are capable of game-changing arguments supported by your reporting prowess, wide access and deep knowledge. It’s a world which may accord trust more on individual rather than institutional reputation. It’s a world that favours quality – although quality may mean many different things. It will be a world in which, praise be, we can probably drop the word “blog”.

In short, this is the assimilation of blogging into the mainstream, and is what some of us have been expecting, even hoping for, since we first posted.

Then, yesterday, one of those projects I’ve been using Basecamp for is finally just about ready to bear fruit… a new studio, and a podcasting plan.

My friend John is responsible, in large part, for my dislike of flying. When, once, we shared a disgraceful, environmental hazard of a flat over in Putney, he would detail – over morose beers – what an air crash would feel like. “Everyone says it would be quick,” he would say, “but it wouldn’t. Falling from that height, you’d be alive for five minutes, knowing your fate, before you actually died.”

John doesn’t fly much now, and needs copious amounts of drink to make it happen when he does. For me, despite his best efforts, it’s a dislike, rather than fear. I still fly around quite a lot, but now have at least one spell during each flight when, sweaty palmed and remembering John’s cheering words, a spot of turbulence has me swearing I’m going to take a ship, train or car everywhere from here on in.

The odd thing is, those moments are juxtaposed with the other aspects of flying I enjoy; during the cruise, a combination of enforced idleness and alcohol makes it quite a creative time – I’ve written a few decent pieces while flying home. And the approach to London City airport, which I experienced for the first time ever a few weeks ago, will live in my mind for ever – or, at least, until Alzheimer’s takes a hold.

Let me explain: coming into City is much, much better than going into Heathrow, and not just because if you live in the Docklands you can get from plane to sofa in 30 minutes. City’s approach is a remarkable low-level tour of London’s finest sights: flying from Edinburgh, as I was, you descend over North London before crossing the Thames above the airport, turning right and hurtling west, below Heathrow’s final approach, over south London, before swinging through 180 degrees right above the Houses of Parliament and the London eye, looking down into Downing Street, and entering the final approach.

Still really travelling, and with all those rumbling noises planes make when they’re gathering themselves to land, you pass over the City, then look down onto the pyramid atop Canary Wharf and then… oh God – (sweaty palms here) the little cityhopping plane points its nose at the ground and – fucking hell look at the Dome and the laserbeam picking out the Greenwich meridian! – descend, very rapidly, and – thump! – hit the runway before slamming on the brakes because the runway’s not very long is he slowing up that’s the terminal building going by when’s he braking oh thank God he is at last finally slowing and there’s the waves but at least we’re not going to splash into them with horrific loss of life this time.

Anyway – all of this is a long way of saying: I read this wonderful piece and thought of John. Would he, in fact, need sedation before flying Ariana, the Afghan national airline? (The image on this post, with possibly intentially funny caption, comes from BBC News – they once wrote about the airline too).

“Ariana has few peers in the airline business for many reasons. All of them are bad. Its history is abysmal. During Afghanistan’s quarter century of war Ariana planes were shut down, shot down or hijacked. Flights plunged into snowy mountains or vanished into remote deserts. Still, today, it is nobody’s airline of choice. A disastrous safety record means Ariana flights are barred from most European and American airports. Nicknamed, only half- jokingly, “Scaryana”, UN officials and foreign diplomats are forbidden to board. And most of the 1,700 staff are, as Atash cheerfully admits, spectacularly incompetent or corrupt. For them “inshallah” is more than a religious invocation – it is a corporate creed.”

The approach into Kabul also sounds a little like flying into the old Kai Tak airport in Hong Kong (an approach I once sat through, terrified, in a cabin full of fully bedecked morris dancers, although that’s a story for another day). A little like Kai Tak… only with the added fun of dodging Stinger anti-aircraft missiles…

“Thanks to US support the mujahideen were also armed with formidable Stinger anti-aircraft missiles. So Ariana pilots had to learn the “corkscrew”. On approach to Kabul, planes would cruise at a safe height, avoiding the jagged peaks around the city. Suddenly they dived towards the ground in a stomach-churning spiral, hoping to shake off any Stingers, before levelling off at the last minute for a bone-jarring landing.”

Anyway – fantastic piece, not least because some brave soul is actually attempting to turn the airline around, improve safety and make it respectable enough to be allowed into airports around the world. Indeed, I was amused to find that the airline has a very respectable website, proudly talking of plans to renew their fleet with new Boeings – and get training for maintenance and engineering staff too. Without knowing its history, even John might be lured into buying a ticket with them…

Pull yourselves together

Posters advising Londoners not to bother their fellow passengers or – for God’s sake – hassle the cops on account of mere abandoned bags have been appearing all over the city in the last week. It’s a uniquely British attempt to restore the famous Stiff Upper Lip. Or a uniquely British misuse of the comma. Your shout.

Now, I’m tempted to think it’s just me – that the complexity of the stuff I’m studying means there’s no really simple way of writing about it. But then I know from work – where we’re often trying to explain hugely complicated concepts to a lay audience – that it can be done, at least in IT. Of course, you can’t force people to read the stuff, but if they want to, they should be able to understand it.

So it’s nice to see Ophelia Benson taking a potshot at bad academic writing in a piece on butterflies and wheels.com. I feel it’s not just me struggling with this kind of stuff; maybe they really are not written very well.

Of course, academics have one big advantage over us hacks. While we have to work to persuade people to read our stuff, they have a captive audience fearful that if they glaze over, and skate through a paragraph or five, their act of omission guarantees the bloody thing comes up in the exam.

(found via the Guardian’s Editor)