Without WP, (or writing in general), I seem to have lost my ability to think.
Because I need to write stuff out to sort stuff out, you’d think I’d be an ideal candidate for regular blogging. But in this age of carefully curated online branding, I have been mostly afraid to think “aloud” to this amorphous audience. I mean, after looking over my LiveJournal existence…it’s probably better that that account is gone.
I enjoy reading people’s blog posts where they discover the minutiae that really shape how they view the world. I love catching up with The Bloggess, and following her struggles as well as her crazy taxidermy collection. I feel like I can never miss a single installment of my dear friend, K.C. Wise, as she builds her house, her home, and her foundation in (gasp) the suburbs. I would love to do the same as either of those bloggers, and have that regular release to organize my thoughts in the clutter of my brain.
But I “never have time”, and it “takes too long to write”, and it “isn’t a big deal”, and “I’ll write when I have something important to say.”
If I can look other people in the eye and tell them that they are important, and their thoughts are important, and I am willing to listen to their thoughts and help them work it out, then why are my own thoughts less important to myself? Who’s going to listen to me if I’m not going to listen to myself?
Bongo Mots once told me she couldn’t go out to dinner with me because she had to go home and “think” about Jenny Dell (a Red Sox sideline reporter who decided to date a player…publicly), meaning that she could not exorcise her thoughts without having a jam sesh with WordPress.
Priorities. My biggest weakness is that I prioritize others’ needs and my more immediate (less important) needs over things that are more personally sustaining to me. I put out fires. I’m good at putting out fires. I’m still figuring out how to maintain my own fire at the proper temperature and intensity. (Man, that is a GREAT answer. Why can’t I answer this question in interviews? It’s like not having the perfect comeback for bullies until 10 minutes after they’ve gone.)
It’s not like I live a scripted or curated life. In real life, I am a rough, not-well-thought-out, burst of brilliance and hot mess. And sloth.
I guess writing is like exercise. I know it’s good for me. I mostly like it, when I’m on the bandwagon. But when I’ve been lounging on the couch for a while, physically and mentally, it’s really hard to get back to it. There are a million reasons why I can’t. There are NO reasons why I can’t.
This isn’t even what I got on here to write about, but this’ll do. I already feel more sorted out. Missed ya, WP.