I used to write here with glee, eager to slap words on the page, to paint pictures with a big sloppy brush. Those were in the days before my kids had Internet access, before my real name was attached to this blog, before people I knew in real life knew that I did this crazy thing called blogging. Back then, people didn’t even know what a blog was.
Even when I could still imagine I was somewhat anonymous, I always did try to be careful about what I said, aware that my words were out loud even though they came through my fingertips and not my lips. But I’m even more careful now. I keep more and more of my observations and judgments and stories to myself.
It’s kind of sad, really.
A handful of bloggers who started blogging when I did have published books and built sturdy platforms around which their tribes clamor. They’ve appeared on morning talk shows and had blog excerpts featured in Good Housekeeping and have powered on, creating Facebook communities and more. They go to blog conferences and speak to wanna-be bloggers. They have cooking shows and cookbooks. They are everything that I am not. They are eager to dig up every inch of their figurative back yards to sift through the soil to uncover treasure or bones or something worth something they can write about.
Instead of gaining momentum with my blog, I have dragged my feet and slammed on the brakes. When others sped up, I slowed down. I’ve pretty much taken the exit so I could get out of the fast lane. Five years ago, when I started working full-time and our whole lives shifted (jobs coming and going and coming again), I stopped writing here as much. The stories I wanted to tell would breach the privacy of my kids and my husband. I had less time and truthfully, less to describe. That’s what happens when you suddenly begin spending forty hours a week working at your computer. What is there to say? “Today my kids were annoyed that I worked for eight hours. Then I made dinner. The end.”
Mostly, I didn’t want to say something I’d regret, to blurt out stuff that would have eyebrows raising.
I never wanted to write a blog that told other people what to do, how to live. I didn’t intend to shape my daily life into a devotional thought. I just wanted to write about what was happening, to tell stories that might help me remember and sometimes, help me understand my life.
I write because it helps me think. It helps me figure things out. It gives me perspective.
I can never stop writing even though this blog is so neglected. I am still writing, but more often, in a sound-proof booth so no one can hear me.
And, of course, I’ll continue to putter along here, mostly unnoticed, determined to tell stories from time to time.
