I've heard this for quite some time. Friends of all different walks of life, different types of personalities; they all tell me this. Frankly, I'm not convinced.
So I did some homework, and by 'some', I mean the equivalent of I Googled "what makes a successful blog?" before I got bored with the tips and help links immediately after 5 minutes and mentally shrugged, "Eh. Screw it." closed Google, came here and created a blog.
I have no idea what I'm doing. And this is my blog.
I consider why I've put this off. I'm complimented on my writing skills (and I think it has a direct correlation to the fact that I don't say I have "writing skilz".) Everyone seems to have a blog these days. I follow a few (I like the demented ones). But even those are forgettable to me, eventually. Freud might delve into my psyche and could assume I'm afraid to become forgettable, but that seems too easy of a conclusion, and Freud was, like, really smart and stuff.
I can't blog.
I can't blog!
I write. Oh, can I write! I even think in writing. Seriously, I think in story telling mode. When I have a thought bubble, I'm thinking it out how I would write it out. Even when I'm talking to a person, in my head, I'm rewriting the paragraphs as quick as the words are coming out of my mouth.
Yet, I can't frickin' blog.
I've tried blogging before. I've had various blogging friends email me links to their blogs. It's always presented with a prelude like, "It's so easy!", or "You'll love it!" or my personal favorite, full of stressful incentive, "You'll be great at it!".
I became a published poet when I was 13 (which sounds much more impressive to a 13 year old, now that I'm 38.) Family lore has me believe I drove my poor mother absolutely batty with my leeeeeengthy, drrrrrrawn out stories.
I swear I don't remember life like that.
I could take you to the house I grew up in, now empty, due to mom's passing and dad's remarriage, and point out to you the ex.act. way I was sitting on my bed with the Pound Puppies comforter, underneath a wall mounted book shelf, when I wrote what was to become my first published poem. I could explain to you the songs playing on the radio that night from the corner of my room. I could tell you how I just "knew" what I just wrote was a good one.
I don't ever recall my mother being bored by my stories. I never saw her roll her eyes, or hear her sigh when I told her I had a story for her. Obviously, this says a tremendous amount more of her resilience, not mine. And that's kinda cool to know that as an adult myself, mother to my own 'version' of me (trust me, I roll my eyes and sigh. A lot). I do remember my mother telling me not to read to her however. She'd have me write whatever I wanted to, but her rule was she got to read it herself (which is, ironically, something I try NOT to do with my kids. It might sound like droning after awhile, but since my own mother died, I realize someday, one of us isn't going to be around to read to anymore. I enjoy them reading to me.)
Verbage and I seem to just get along. I mean, I can't remember funny jokes often, but when I do, I can knock 'em outta the park. I don't often repeat puns, but I'm thinking them in my head all the time. I write to clear my mind, rid myself of anger, put rejoice into words when I know I'd be too weak and blubbery to speak it but still feel the need to share it.
They say public speaking is majority's number one fear. If ever I'm asked to speak in front of people, my palms sweat, and I constantly look down to make sure I don't have hidden TP under a shoe. I will incessantly be checking my teeth to make sure I don't have lipstick on them. And did I just smear lipstick on them now the last time I checked to see if I had lipstick smeared on them?
I anticipate the failure. I haven't always gotten through public speaking engagements. Sometimes, I cry if the subject is close to my heart. Sometimes tho, when it's very close to my heart, it fuels me.
I've spoke at funerals, and hospitals. I've spoke at city council meetings and classroom debates. I've covered assemblies from 5 people to 500. As I'm talking, I'm writing the words in my head.
But I can't blog it out. Still.
Who would read it? Who would care? I'm open. But I spent a few years trying to go off the grid after my divorce, as a means of re-centering my world. As a means of quiet. As a means of survival. Does this mean I reopen myself to no protection if I blog? Does it have to be so public? (Rhetorical, my dear blogger friends. Don't feel you need to actually answer me.) Oh, and the haters....they stress me out.
Yes, I definitely anticipate the failure in these type of things. But in my head, I've got it all figured out. I mean, man, I rock this shit. Take my word for it. The thought bubbles are exploding!
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