A Shift in the Blogging Force (And A Disclaimer)
I stopped blogging for a while, and while I'd love to say that I was so busy living my mad impetuous life that I just didn't have time to plunk out a few words on a weeknight evening, the truth is that blogging had just stopped being fun.
Sometimes it's that simple. It felt like there was so much editing, so much work to create something polished and complete, so much pressure to avoid hurting feelings, and pressures to be niche and interesting, to gain readership and some dimply imagined notoriety. And so at some point I stopped writing for myself, stopped writing about life, and started writing about things- plays, books, movies, because that felt so much safer. But there are so many people writing about those things, and I felt held to a higher standard, one I wasn't sure I could raise myself up to.
And yet, I began to miss blogging. Yes, blogging means stealing a little time from the mystery novel I've been dutifully writing for the past year (I'm up to 85,000 words if you're keeping track- big old metaphorical high five for me) but it's worth it, if I can just take some of the pressure off myself. Realize that its imaginary, and that none of this writing may mean all that much to anybody else, but as long as it means something to me, that is enough. But the only way it will ever mean anything to me, is if it is authentic and truthful, and intimate.
So here it is. The catch all disclaimer, apology, warning, and promise. Relatives, friends, former friends, exes, boys I dated and pretend that our relationship meant so much more to you than it probably actually did, if you don't want to see reflections of you as they relate to my life in print? Don't read. And probably stop hanging out with me, that way you can be assured that you won't see yourself in here. My promise? I promise to be respectful and as kind as I know how to be. See, this won't be that scary.
Sometimes it's that simple. It felt like there was so much editing, so much work to create something polished and complete, so much pressure to avoid hurting feelings, and pressures to be niche and interesting, to gain readership and some dimply imagined notoriety. And so at some point I stopped writing for myself, stopped writing about life, and started writing about things- plays, books, movies, because that felt so much safer. But there are so many people writing about those things, and I felt held to a higher standard, one I wasn't sure I could raise myself up to.
And yet, I began to miss blogging. Yes, blogging means stealing a little time from the mystery novel I've been dutifully writing for the past year (I'm up to 85,000 words if you're keeping track- big old metaphorical high five for me) but it's worth it, if I can just take some of the pressure off myself. Realize that its imaginary, and that none of this writing may mean all that much to anybody else, but as long as it means something to me, that is enough. But the only way it will ever mean anything to me, is if it is authentic and truthful, and intimate.
So here it is. The catch all disclaimer, apology, warning, and promise. Relatives, friends, former friends, exes, boys I dated and pretend that our relationship meant so much more to you than it probably actually did, if you don't want to see reflections of you as they relate to my life in print? Don't read. And probably stop hanging out with me, that way you can be assured that you won't see yourself in here. My promise? I promise to be respectful and as kind as I know how to be. See, this won't be that scary.