What's the point?

I was asked an interesting question about blogging yesterday, "What's the point?"
Actually, it was not an offensive question, and has prompted me to think about it all quite a bit.
The rest of the question is somewhat of a blur because my mind had already left in search of the answer to the first part, but it was something like, "Do bloggers want to be writers? If it doesn't have a purpose, like explaining how to do something, then what's the point?"
The chances of the person who asked the question actually reading this are small, but if you are reading it, it was a good question and I'm not trying to make you look bad in any way.

When I began this, it was something that I felt like I had to do. I have always written in my spare time, as an adult, and when I look back over things I have written I usually enjoy them a lot. I would like to understand all the rules of writing better, but I do enjoy the things my mind comes up with. And, this was the first time I've allowed anyone to read the things that I've written. I have since gone back and let my wife read things I wrote years ago. My poetry skills are weak, and she usually tries to politely let me know this, but if it's particularly bad I may hear a sweet, "I don't get it." She does a good job of making me think it's not that it doesn't make sense, but some deficiency in her that makes it unclear.

We laughed for an hour one night as we read an "anger journal" that I started in my last two years of working midnight shift. It was a place to write things that I would never say to anyone, and it helped relieve the stress in my life at the time. I used to say that the bus I rode from the parking lot to the office was delivering me to the gates of hell; on this bus was where I usually wrote in the anger journal. (If you have read this far, you may as well finish this post. Sorry it's so long) Here is an excerpt from the "Anger journal, inspired by factors beyond my control," from 2004.

Just when I think I have some of life's mysteries figured out, another clue reveals itself that reaffirms that I don't know crap(in lieu of the "s" word). Actually crap is one of my specialties, that and wool. For so long I have been full of crap, with the wool securely over my own eyes. How can you fool yourself? The deception is indeed complete when you have fooled yourself. It's like a mosaic of foolery; lots of disconnected pieces that rely on each other not to question their presence. The end result is, from afar, a nice picture. The closer one gets, the clearer it becomes that these carefully placed pieces of, oh...let's say crap, really don't mesh, and the picture makes less sense. The messy job is to remove each piece of crap and see what's under it, and find where it truly belongs. The bus has once again dropped me at the gates of hell. I bid you adieu.

So, the point is that I have written small pieces about my life for a long time now, long before I allowed anyone to read them. I guess, like I said in the beginning, this is the nonsense that absolutely fills my head, all of the time, and I wanted to take the risk of letting people see it. As far as I know, one person reads it, and she is very positive and encouraging...thank you D. My next step is to take some classes and see what happens there. I can't afford a convertible sports car, and I'm almost 44; I had to do something.

Holy crap, I just did spell check and I only had one error...I am getting better!