The Why

Fun fact: I’ve been blogging, off and on, for twenty years.  Two of those years were before the word blog existed.

I started oversharing on the Internet at the tender age of 13,  and while the frequency and comfort with doing so has waxed and waned over the years,  blogger has been a rather key part of my identity.

Maybe it’s a little less of my identity than it used to be…    I let the blog go dark after I departed from New York City in 2016.   I couldn’t afford my hosting, and I was struggling with what I wanted to put out there for public consumption during a time in my life where everything was changing and I was grieving the things that I’d lost.

Even now, I’m not entirely sure why I want to go back to doing it.

I don’t really have a plan or much of an intention.

I mostly just want a space on the Internet to call my own again.

I want a place where I can write down long form thoughts and share them with the world, a space to explore my creative side, a place to connect with others…  Somewhere apart from the noise of social media.

To be honest, my desires around my blog feel very old school of me.   I don’t have anything to prove.  I don’t have a singular subject that I want to focus on to build an audience.  I don’t want to build a business out of it (though, it would be nice if somebody paid me).

I just want to be a person documenting my human experience.


The Beginning

I sit down and begin to write a story about a show that I went to see the day after Christmas.  I write two paragraphs, then lose myself in a trail of thought while staring at a blinking cursor.

I lose forty-five minutes thinking about what details are relevant to reveal.  I emerge on the other side of my thoughts with no will to continue.

I shelve it.

Maybe it’s a story I’ll tell someday, but not today.  It feels too dense.

In truth, I don’t really know what story I want to tell right now.

Words don’t flow freely off my fingers, and I assign a judgement to every idea that crosses my mind.

Too much.

Too soon.

Too stupid.

Too revealing.

In times past, hitting this sort of wall in expression might have triggered a spiral of self-defeating thoughts.   The inner critic a bully with unrelenting antagonism.   Self-loathing so heavy and exhausting that it sucks the very will to live out of the room.

This is not where I am now.

I can sit with not knowing what to say and just accept that it’s so.

I don’t have to hate myself for not having a statement prepared that will change the world instantaneously.

The fact that I’ve written anything at all….   Well, all it means is that I’ve begun.

Nobody said it had to be good.