Wednesday, April 27, 2016
Existential Blog Crisis
Peanut's taken it upon himself to act as placeholder. I turn on my computer, go get a cup of coffee and come back to find him in my spot. I like to think he's responsible for my absence here (a little play on cat's got my tongue), but the truth is, he'll make room for me if I just ask. Speaking of truth...I'm in a bit of a quandary. You see on the one hand I'm noticing that when I come here to write, I've either said it before or can't say it at all. Best not to put it out there on www and to whoever may find their way to my little piece of it. So many stories aren't mine to tell even though nothing would delight me more. Gone are the days when I want to memorialize all the sweet and precocious things my kids say and do here. Gone mostly because my two don't want me waxing poetic about them night and day. I try to stay away from family drama, which is forever abundant, because I need and love these people plus I'm saving it all for my juicy novel. Work drama is so ripe for the picking, but I don't feel like looking for a new job and I'm storing it in the vault for the sitcom I write one day. By the way, it will be better than The Office, which was originally my idea. I'm telling you I could have written a whole season after 6 hours at the office yesterday. Politics and religion are big parts of my life, but I don't care for people other than Father Tim preaching at me, so I do my best to refrain from taking my Blogger pulpit. That leaves me with little material and it's exactly why so many of my posts are about daily life, which is the extraordinary ordinary if only to me. Recipes, books, excursions, celebrations that are reduced into what not why. I'm a why girl. Writing helps me figure things out. The words flow, the feelings come and go, and suddenly I can come out the other side. The other side of joy or grief or anger or disappointment. Not writing is not good for me and not a healthy option so therein lies the struggle. I need to write, but I'm handcuffed. I feel I cannot write about so many of the things I want and need to write about.
I don't read many blogs anymore. It's less a time thing and more a matter of finding that writers are sharing less and less. Sound familiar? The blogs I was initially drawn to a decade ago when I first entered this forum were raw and honest. I was shocked at the confessional tone these writers seemed comfortable assuming as they poured out their hearts, fears, demons, desires, but I was drawn in because they felt safe and familiar. Some of them are still writing...lots of sponsored or self-promotional posts and once in awhile a surface level empirical crisis, which just makes me suspicious. I'm not a dog...I don't need a bone. Most of them have written books. I'll celebrate anyone who gives birth to their words, but I usually refrain from buying or even reading these publications. Why? Because I don't connect with them anymore. There I said it. They let me down. These women were once open and authentic, but now they are just shilling and yes, most of them are attention junkies. I know I know. The Internet has changed the world, blogging has changed writing and social media has changed us all, but I remember when there was a safe and supportive, honest and open community of writers, and I miss that.
I started this blog shortly after my mother died. It was a natural way for me to work through my grief. If you read here you know I'm still working through my grief, and I imagine that will continue until the day I die. Words heal, but there is always scar tissue. I wrote for myself without any attention to an audience. I wasn't interested in monetizing my blog, going viral or racking up comments and followers...I just wanted to purge. None of that has changed. Along the way, people in my real life discovered this blog, which I decided was no secret and that kind of delighted me. It scared me too, but I'm a writer at heart and the thought of sharing my words was appealing. I know of a few people in my real life that check in here and to you I want to say thank you. It means so much to me that you think enough of me to read what I write. You are giving me a much appreciated gift. I've been hurt by many others who have made comments that it would be weird to read my blog, or that they just couldn't imagine reading my inner thoughts. To them I want to say I don't get it. If any one of them wrote anything, I would be the first to read it. I am deeply interested in their thoughts...in their lives. It really feels like a snub. It hurts.
I don't see myself shutting down My Musings. I love all the memories it holds and I imagine my kids reading it one day. Perhaps, I'll make it private and then I'll truly be able to write without censor, or maybe I'll just start on my novel and my sitcom, but more than likely I'll keep on keeping on because this space has become an integral part of me.
I've never asked this before and I feel a little vulnerable doing so now, but if you read this will you check in and say hi? Just leave me a message in the comments, which I think I've successfully enabled. It can be your good deed for the day: helping a struggling writer in the middle of a real existential crisis. It would mean a great deal to me to know who's stopping by.