Now that I consider myself an actual blogger, though I still feel a sense of modesty come over me when I say that, I think I qualify since I’ve posted once a week ‘with fail’ (shit and damn!) for almost one full year.
There are 389,000 bloggers registered on WordPress. Today. I am only one. WordPress is only one option. Blogging is big. Huge! Initially, it was a daunting task, to assign myself an essay a week, much like college English Literature homework. Find a subject, write it, edit it, edit it, edit it, and then edit it. Find pictures. Explore layout. Think about grammar and verb tense, and paragraphs, and aarrrgghh.
The simple truth is I enjoy blogging. I adore English. I love writing. (Is it still ‘writing’ even though it’s typing?) I enjoy critiquing myself and the sense of accomplishment when I feel I’ve written a nice piece. And the icing on the cake is if anybody, A-N-Y-B-O-D-Y reads it and responds. But I’m also a wreck on Thursdays, just in case anybody reads it and responds.
The hardest part, for me at least, is taking a subject I’d like to write about (like ‘how texting hurts relationships’) and igniting the passion underneath the subject at the very moment I need it. Always easiest when emotions are on fire, sometimes words pour out. Typos be damned. There’s always spellcheck. And the edit, edit, edit, edit phase.
Sometimes, I am immensely frustrated. On the night before I self-publish, when I am stressed that it’s already 10:30 p.m., when I regret using half an hour to watch Modern Family, when I’m sorry I’ve waited til Monday or Tuesday to settle on a subject, when I wish I had a cigarette or 20 because the words, the RIGHT words, aren’t flowing so freely… First, determination kicks in, and I resolve that I will not give up, having made a committment to myself.
Eventually, late at night when I know the following day may find me napping in the car at lunch, there comes a moment when my inner turmoil subsides, when I realize I have done all I can do. And I walk away. Or stagger away to bed with squinty eyes. It is a sweet moment.
Sweeter still, because I have expressed myself creatively; I’ve attempted to unleash something original. I have CREATED. Like the scientist as ‘proud father’ in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, ugly or not, this is my baby.