I've been thinking about my blog.
What is it about? What is the purpose of writing here? One person I know writes about her journey through weight loss and increased health and happiness. Another writes about her journey through addiction towards health - physical, mental, spiritual. Yet another writes a blog about Canadian history.
What do I write about?
I muse. I ponder. I observe and write about the people around me and I do an absolutely shit job of hiding their identities. I worry sometimes about friends reading back through old posts and deciding they don't want to be friends with me anymore because of what I've written.
I was a different person when I started this blog. Younger, yes. Definitely more naive. I wrote on here as if it were a private journal, oblivious to the fact that once it's online anyone - anyone - can read it.
I've learned the hard way not to use people's names. I've learned the hard way that people can figure out who I am extremely easily. That what I write here is read by other people and that what I write here can come back and bite me in the ass, oh, so quickly.
All of that and I'm not sure I even have a purpose here. I started this blog because someone told me to, back when I was young and naive and highly suggestible. I started for no real reason and I just haven't ever stopped.
Well, not permanently, anyway.
What started this train of thought was, in part, chatting with a co-worker who is starting a blog. She keeps asking me for advice and I don't really know what to tell her. I'm not a consistent blogger nor am I a terribly wide read one. I don't do all the upkeep you're supposed to do - reading other blogs, leaving comments, creating a trail back to my own blog to generate traffic, all that stuff. I write sometimes. That's it.
And I was thinking about what I do - writing - and how ridiculous it is. I take words, ideas, out of my head and put them down on a piece of paper - not even always a real piece of paper, sometimes it's virtual which makes this even more abstract and ethereal - and that's it. That. Is. It. Carefully thought out or randomly flung, either way it's just words, intangible thought bubbles, set onto a page.
It's absurd. Absolutely insane. I don't build houses or cut out tumours or make food for hungry people or plant seeds in a field. I write shit down. The end. And I want it to matter for some reason. But really, it's fucking insane! I laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of what I do, right there alone in the car, laughing like a lunatic.
But I still want to write. I'm not going to stop writing just because it's such a bizarre habit.
It might be pointless. It might be crazy.
And I might never find a real purpose behind it.
But I'll never be able to stop doing it.
And I'm not sure if that's a blessing or a curse.
What is it about? What is the purpose of writing here? One person I know writes about her journey through weight loss and increased health and happiness. Another writes about her journey through addiction towards health - physical, mental, spiritual. Yet another writes a blog about Canadian history.
What do I write about?
I muse. I ponder. I observe and write about the people around me and I do an absolutely shit job of hiding their identities. I worry sometimes about friends reading back through old posts and deciding they don't want to be friends with me anymore because of what I've written.
I was a different person when I started this blog. Younger, yes. Definitely more naive. I wrote on here as if it were a private journal, oblivious to the fact that once it's online anyone - anyone - can read it.
I've learned the hard way not to use people's names. I've learned the hard way that people can figure out who I am extremely easily. That what I write here is read by other people and that what I write here can come back and bite me in the ass, oh, so quickly.
All of that and I'm not sure I even have a purpose here. I started this blog because someone told me to, back when I was young and naive and highly suggestible. I started for no real reason and I just haven't ever stopped.
Well, not permanently, anyway.
What started this train of thought was, in part, chatting with a co-worker who is starting a blog. She keeps asking me for advice and I don't really know what to tell her. I'm not a consistent blogger nor am I a terribly wide read one. I don't do all the upkeep you're supposed to do - reading other blogs, leaving comments, creating a trail back to my own blog to generate traffic, all that stuff. I write sometimes. That's it.
And I was thinking about what I do - writing - and how ridiculous it is. I take words, ideas, out of my head and put them down on a piece of paper - not even always a real piece of paper, sometimes it's virtual which makes this even more abstract and ethereal - and that's it. That. Is. It. Carefully thought out or randomly flung, either way it's just words, intangible thought bubbles, set onto a page.
It's absurd. Absolutely insane. I don't build houses or cut out tumours or make food for hungry people or plant seeds in a field. I write shit down. The end. And I want it to matter for some reason. But really, it's fucking insane! I laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of what I do, right there alone in the car, laughing like a lunatic.
But I still want to write. I'm not going to stop writing just because it's such a bizarre habit.
It might be pointless. It might be crazy.
And I might never find a real purpose behind it.
But I'll never be able to stop doing it.
And I'm not sure if that's a blessing or a curse.
