I received an email today from a new interweb friend apologizing for nagging me to blog more. She hadn’t nagged me at all, but asked in a previous email to write more posts. And even if she HAD nagged I wouldn’t have cared because I love her blog and, even though we have never met, I find her perfectly delightful and think we would get on quite well in the real world as long as she understood I expected her to be the one sober enough to drive. Or maybe we should discuss cab fare first thing.
I started writing her a response that turned out to be so long that it’s actually a post about blogging. Or writing. If you consider bloggers to be writers. Otherwise, you think writers are only bloggers that get compensated to blog or people who have paying publishers and then this post does not apply to your sensibilities. I may also fall out of the category of people who think some bloggers are writers by breaking the first rule which is Thou shalt not call yourself a blogging writer unless you pour over your post for hours and edit, edit, and edit some more. I do no such thing and only skim for typos. It is a blog that I author and I will do as I wish. Off with you.
I used to blog a lot and now that I work from home I have lost the drive. Yet, I have so many things that I want to blog about that get locked into my brain and when I finally have time to write it down I’ve forgotten, or figure it isn’t really so essential to type out or one of hundreds of excuses that I also use to put off the housework or finishing my sewing or moving off of the couch. I guess I’ve slipped into that point of momhood and worker bee that anything I used to enjoy seems just as much work as momhood and workerbee.
My relative (you know who you are!) complains incessantly that I don’t blog enough and as of last week he has started printing everything out for permanant record for my girls to read in the event the internet crashes in a fiery ball and loses all trace of me. I also feel that my blog isn’t really “true” and it bothers me more and more. I censor myself to not hurt feelings and make sure that it’s clean enough for any family member to read. It isn’t even a glorified journal as my handwritten entries of my younger years are certainly not reading for the public either.
I also know that I’ve never had that many readers, maybe at most 10 people and now maybe 5. Although I don’t write to reach everyone on the planet, it seems a bit pointless to spend time on a post that maybe only I will read anyway. My husband reads it, but usually only to be polite, and I don’t think he spends any time with comprehension unless it’s about the girls. I don’t always want to write about the girls but I rarely leave the house and I don’t have anything to write about from *real world* experience. I don’t even get stuck in traffic anymore and normally have groceries delivered to the house.
Even as I write this, I am censoring, aren’t I? And this post is a bit about nothing, isn’t it? The woman who wrote the email writes this blog! The relative printing my posts is my godfather! My children frequently not so adorable and I mumble curses under my breathe! I’m currently reading Breaking News, which will take me a year because I am getting so lazy I’d rather watch tv! I started a sewing class a month ago and it ends in 2 weeks and I haven’t finished one project! I feel so free already. Watch out, I’m on a roll….
(Except,maybe not, because I think that’s all I may have to talk about right now.)