Life, for one. Living in it is a pretty good reason. As you might know, it can get in the way of what you really want to do sometimes. And though I have often blogged late into the night, delaying paying projects like it’s my job, it does not contribute to the bread and butter situation at my rustic, reclaimed barn wood, dining table. Just kidding, I don’t own a dinette set and would still turn one down at the Showcase Showdown on the Price is Right, because you know the brand new car is waiting for you in Showcase Number 2 (duh). I eat at the kitchen counter, in my car, or at my desk. None of which are made of actual wood. I am mostly okay with not owning a wooden car.
Though that is exactly how you make an Aztek better. I still wouldn’t trade it in, even for the brand new Showcase Car, because I love my Aztek and all it represents: millennial adventure, renaissance visionaries, angry kitchen appliances.
Then there’s social media. Captions on Facebook are far less time and energy consuming than photo essays and travel stories, and at least there I can know when what I write is something viewers actually like. But there’s no fun in dumping a series of photos in an online album for me. I want to reflect on and share the circumstances and details surrounding the shots just out of frame. Also because more often than not, I got lost in the experience that I didn’t think to reach for my camera-phone. How did blogging become a chore and source of anxiety for me? I’m doing it for myself and all of my two readers, I realize. The real answer is I’m a bit “Type A” [end of post].
Before this blog, it was my journal. Friends who’ve also kept a journal since the fifth grade, who could not stop themselves falling into heartbreak teendom, and who went on to update Moleskins tirelessly through midterms in college, could agree that at this point, we can’t possibly quit now.
Suddenly it’s no longer a therapeutic, creative release though. Now I set weird deadlines and feelings of owing my future self some type of play-by-play of everything important to me. I feel guilty if I miss a few weeks. Or worse, if I do the unthinkable and actually forget details of what I was meaning to write (what I swore with wildly grandiose confidence that I could not possibly forget). In-the-moment descriptions, comedic rants, the occasional brilliant quip, with nearly no chance of retrieval…the harder I try to recall something, the farther from the first authentic narrative I get.
So I will stop waiting for the right time to sit down and write. There will rarely not be enough going on in my day to enjoy the ideal, nurturing, creative head-space in which to convey myself exactly the way I want, and in the meantime, risk losing fragments of a story worthy to share. It might not be expressed as accurate as my twelfth revision, but it’ll be pretty damn close. So here goes, and not a moment too soon, because GUESS WHO WENT TO FRANCE for their twenty-sixth birthday?!
This blogger in her late twenties now, that’s who!