Today marks the tenth anniversary of my first post on The Posterity Project. In historical terms, a decade isn't a long time, but on social media it's an eternity.
I first published this blog in 2008 following an informative session on blogging held at a Special Libraries Association conference. The presenters encouraged special collections librarians and archivists to establish their own professional footprint online as a way to communicate and to share information and expertise while also building an online presence. The advice I gained from this session during that informative week certainly set me on a different path. This blog has helped me engage with interested readers and connect with my fellow public history professionals. It has also steered my career in ways I could have never imagined.
Since that time, my focus on The Posterity Project has shifted from that of an archivist and public historian to that of an author and writer of early Tennessee history. Social media habits have also shifted. Not long ago, the so-called social media "experts" declared blogging dead. Many people, including myself, listened to this dreadful advice and took to other online social platforms like Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram to chronicle their musings. Over the years my posts on The Posterity Project waned as I've explored these new social media platforms. The brevity and ease with which one can post and comment on these sites made blogging seemingly obsolete. But invasions of privacy, online addiction and distraction, and political vitriol and negativity have now consumed much of social media.
Twitter, in particular, has been a source of personal frustration. I once considered Twitter my favorite social media platform, but lately I've become disillusioned by how it seems to bring out the worst in us. One example of this, a practice known as dunking, has turned some "twitterstorians" into snarky fact-checkers, quote tweeting pundits and provocateurs in a futile effort to correct the historical record. While I've certainly witnessed genuine efforts to refute fallacious claims to the past, on Twitter many teachable moments have simply devolved into dunking contests of petty sarcasm. Amplified by the platform's unwillingness to police its most abusive users, the false historical narratives endure. I've long believed that it's important to confront historical myths and misinformation, but I've never made it my practice to pile on with insults, so I won't change course now despite encouragement from some social media circles to embrace this new form of history communication. This is unprofessional and doesn't represent "the best practices of the discipline of history," in my view.
While I've been discouraged by this increased level toxicity, I still believe in the power of social media as a tool for public engagement. And so, on this tenth anniversary of my first post on The Posterity Project, I've decided to return to my blog as tool for online expression. I'll still maintain a footprint on other social platforms, but this blog will serve as my base camp with a writing focus on topics centered around early Tennessee history. Posts will be appear less frequently than you'll see on other social media platforms, but I hope that quality will make up for quantity here. You may also see other changes in the near future, including a site redesign and a shift to my own hosted site. My goal is to return to what inspired me to follow this path in the first place. The blog seems like a great place to begin this journey anew.
I'm grateful for your continued interest and I'm looking forward to exploring this new path with you.
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost
Gordon Belt is a public historian and author of The History Press book, John Sevier: Tennessee's First Hero, which examines the life of Tennessee's first governor, John Sevier, through the lens of history and memory. On The Posterity Project, Gordon offers reflections on archives, public history, and memory from his home state of Tennessee.