Frankly my dear, I’m failing to see how I ought to give a damn anymore

I feel like I’m a fish, stuck in a fish bowl. Only instead of being shocked by the same weed, in the same corner every time I swim past it, I continue to have the same conversation, about the same things over and over.

2009: Are bloggers ethical?

2010: Are bloggers ethical?

2011: Are bloggers ethical? (With a side dish of hand wringing and oh, won’t someone please, think of the community?)

Yet, here we are, in 2012, having the same old conversation, over and over. Ethics! Advertorial! Won’t someone think of the children!

The thing is, each time this conversation is raised, the people who raised it seem to think that they are the first to have noticed that bloggers occasionally run disclosed advertorial. They think that this is NEW NEWS and we’re all going to be shocked by their revelations.

Extra extra, read all about it: Sometimes personal bloggers get PAID to write about things! SHOCK! HORROR! HYPERBOLE!

And maybe they’re shocked by what they’re realising about blogging, but to everyone else this is old news, churned out in the same old way, bringing up the same old complaints, from the same old corners of the Internet.

Round in a circle we go, attacking and blaming, defending and discussing.

Are we ethical? What are the pitfalls of selling our writing space? Can we ever be trusted again? Insert hand wringing and a fainting couch here.

Uuuuuugh. Groan. <— This is me curling up in the corner with a headache and a block of chocolate. A block of chocolate I didn’t have to pay for, just to rub salt into the wounds here. Can you feel it burn?

Frankly, I’m sick of it. I’m sick of the fishbowl conversations and the writers who think that they’ve suddenly discovered a Brand! New! Thing! and the detractors (“mums should be playing with their children, not writing online”) and the hangers on trying to leverage traffic (“you’re creating a MORAL PANIC”) and just everything.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who liked to tell stories. She told so many stories, with so many millions of words that eventually, someone asked to buy some of her blog space. Carefully she considered and agreed, disclosing to her readers that these particular words had been paid for. Everyone rejoiced. There was no Armageddon, no moral panic and the girl who liked to tell stories bought herself a new book to read, some fancy tea and fluffy socks. Also, power for the house and nappies, because this isn’t a fucking fairytale.