I remember the “good years” of blogging. 2007 until 2013 or so, for me. I had followers, I had pieces picked up by major blogging platforms, even got paid for a piece that got picked up by the Today Show blog. Whoop-dee-doo, I think, but I do miss being able to write. It was easy to write then, my kids were little. After my marriage ended, I had to limit my subject matter a little more, but I could write about parenting and my horses and being single again. I had so many words inside me.
When I met the Mad Libertarian, I could write about that, too. Romance! Love! Cute brainiac couple!
My kids got older. I got promoted at work. The Mad Libertarian and I went through some rough patches. Pretty soon the internet was no longer a friendly place to share my words. Where my commute used to be an hour of all these ideas and thoughts popping into my head that I couldn’t wait to pour out into my blog, now I have all these thoughts and ideas that have, at best, an audience of one.
Why did I think it was so important to put my words out into the world?
What do I know anyway? Who cares what I think?
I used to tell myself I was doing a good thing by sharing about the travails of parenting a child with autism and sensory processing disorders. I used to believe that there was something unique about being a forty year old woman with opinions and a thesaurus. I imagined I was hilariously witty and sharp, pictured people reading my blogs and trying not to laugh out loud in their cubicles at work, or crying softly and snotting into a kleenex when I blogged about sad things.
Now I’m over fifty and no longer think of myself as especially witty or relevant. But I still feel that pull to write. To string words together into order, into sentences and paragraphs, to save these random thoughts somewhere that my kids won’t find when I die and be embarrassed by their mother’s diary.
I have this odd notion that it is a nobler to blog without revealing my particular identity. I suppose it wouldn’t be that hard to figure it out, but like this, I can blog without my mother, husband, children, coworkers, friends reading it. I can be honest, if I like. I can also write fictionally, if that what suits the whimsy of my creative voice. I just need to create something with my words, with my mind, something that is not work and something that is not necessary for the daily activities of managing my life. I need to do something that has no other purpose than to let me enjoy the process of exploring how this word and that word sound together to describe this circumstance or that emotion.
My words, they want out. Time to open the box.