Can I share something silly with you?
Scratch that: I know I can share something silly with you. You are here and you're still reading. The question, therefore, offends.
Anyway. As for the silly thing, it's the fact that sometimes I think David Bowie is talking to me when I listen to "Changes".
I am going to have to be a different (wo)man.
I like that.
I have been wondering much about blogging lately. I haven't been visiting my friends' blogs and my favorites, and it's easy to blame things on the children. The truth lies somewhere in the middle: the kids are overwhelming and time-consuming. But they do allow for time to be stolen to do other things.
See, if you're asking yourself whether you are truly passionate about something, then you probably are not very passionate about that. In other words, if you have to actively wonder if you like something enough, chances are that you're not doing that whatever-it-is to please yourself.
I can always find time to take showers and to eat french fries and to at least attempt a sudoku puzzle at least once a week; and I can find time to take pictures. These are things that are regularly not chores. They are among my favorite things ever.
And then there is the gray area, which is where blogging is finding itself lately.
I realize I am a bad networker.
I don't answer comments on here very often. I try, but then I find that I don't have much else to say, as the comments left by others tend to be kind, witty and funny beyond what I could say. And sometimes if I do feel like continuing the conversation, I tend to do it offline. Incidentally, if you've ever commented on this blog, I love you dearly and consider you a precious shimmering pearl in a delicate bed of seafoam– just so we're clear here.
But sometimes I feel like I am losing myself and losing the joy –the french-fry-eating joy, if you will– of blogging. The joy of writing a good, funny entry that makes people stop and laugh or think or both and then send it to their friends via email, say. The kind of joy that comes from feeling like this is a calling; that I may not have come around to writing through a traditional pathway, but that I am good at it and, perhaps more importantly, those elusive others think it is good.
And sometimes I think I would want to write something more provocative or egregious or downright insulting, and I stop myself. I give up that joy of writing for fear of being hated or despised.
For fear of finding a nasty comment or email, I don't go ahead and say something shocking –like the shocking, shocking fact that I find most mommy blogging to be so self-centered that if I see a potential new blog I'm about to read mentions children in any shape or form I am tempted to start screaming for a good ten minutes before purging my mind and never visiting that URL again.
Because, you know, I totally do not use the words "I" and "me" and "mine" every other sentence.
I arrived at a blog post by Megan Jordan on her blog, and I had to say that it spoke to me. Alas, since I don't have the amount of traffic she does –which, in my opinion, renders her point a bit moot– and I have been jinxed for going to BlogHer for four years and counting, I think I'm going to have to do my self-assessing and reinvention by simply realizing that this, this writing is my french-fry-eating joy.
No one can take my happiness away from me, unless I let that someone or that something do it.
And certainly, no one can force me to edit the contents of my mind. I can think whatever I want, and I can write whatever I want.
And I can enjoy every last damn minute of it, readers or no readers.
Now if I could only have the same attitude when I go buy a swimsuit, I imagine I'd be floating away to nirvana very soon.