This is my first blog. Ever.
I've been a computer teacher for ten years, and a writer for twenty, but it's quite a leap to for this old-school, yellow-college-ruled-notepad-scribbling- gal to finally start a blog. There are several reasons for this.
Discomfort- It seems to me a blog is basically a journal. Aka diary. Except it's online. Anyone --everyone-- can read it. It's weird and a little awkward, this public diary phenomenon that has swept the world into stranger's inner lives. How much do you share? How much do you edit? How much do you omit? Do you lie? And who is your intentional audience, if any? I'm a private person, an introvert. I can count on my digits the number of people with whom I'm willing to share my intimate thoughts. And then I begin to imagine the unintentional audience. The faceless mass of, well, everyone. My cursor hovers over the "cancel" button.
Hubris- Seriously?! Who would want to read my diary? Why should anyone? The thought that I will spew some un-edited text onto a website and the world will rush to their buttons and mice and 3D trackballs to learn about little ole me is ludicrous. I mean really. It's Spring. Crocuses are splitting the soil. The deer have sprouted velvet nubbins between their impressive ears. The world is tilted toward growth and ecstasy. The fragile yellow flowers on my tomato seedling don't care about headaches or congestion. They have no wish to read my unpublished novel and could care less if I go to work or not, if I write another poem. This is what overcomes the discomfort issue mentioned above. No one, I expect, will read this. Therefore, what is there really to be uncomfortable about?
Logistically awkward- Not only timewise, but also regarding subject matter. I'm a teacher. A mother of a four and a five year old. I'm a writer. A gardener. A poet (yes, that's a delineation from writer- when one hears "writer" [in this country], one doesn't assume -or even consider- poetry). I'm a lego maniac. I have more projects on my list than potential years of life... and with my genetics, I'm likely to live to my mid-100's (I inherited Grandma Hilde's stubborn amoung other German stoicism traits). My retirement list is on the computer so I can use small (but elegant) font and save on paper. And retirement is nowhere in sight. There is no time in my mind or daily rituals for a blog.
So Why Bother?
Maybe this is what we all need. An outlet. A crossing of paths. A scything through the jungle to make new connections. A method, however indirect and obscure, for formulating our inner landscape into something comprehensible. Not to nameless readers. But for ourselves.
So.... now that I've justified a blog, I'm pretty much out of time and focus for writing one. /sigh. There's a cat in my lap. The sun is inching over the patio. My head's throbbing like a redlined car. And I am exquisitely happy.
I blame the blog for that last one. Not for singlehandedly improving my life, but for it's nature as an act of writing. It's why we write. Why we have to.
I've been a computer teacher for ten years, and a writer for twenty, but it's quite a leap to for this old-school, yellow-college-ruled-notepad-scribbling- gal to finally start a blog. There are several reasons for this.
Discomfort- It seems to me a blog is basically a journal. Aka diary. Except it's online. Anyone --everyone-- can read it. It's weird and a little awkward, this public diary phenomenon that has swept the world into stranger's inner lives. How much do you share? How much do you edit? How much do you omit? Do you lie? And who is your intentional audience, if any? I'm a private person, an introvert. I can count on my digits the number of people with whom I'm willing to share my intimate thoughts. And then I begin to imagine the unintentional audience. The faceless mass of, well, everyone. My cursor hovers over the "cancel" button.
Hubris- Seriously?! Who would want to read my diary? Why should anyone? The thought that I will spew some un-edited text onto a website and the world will rush to their buttons and mice and 3D trackballs to learn about little ole me is ludicrous. I mean really. It's Spring. Crocuses are splitting the soil. The deer have sprouted velvet nubbins between their impressive ears. The world is tilted toward growth and ecstasy. The fragile yellow flowers on my tomato seedling don't care about headaches or congestion. They have no wish to read my unpublished novel and could care less if I go to work or not, if I write another poem. This is what overcomes the discomfort issue mentioned above. No one, I expect, will read this. Therefore, what is there really to be uncomfortable about?
Logistically awkward- Not only timewise, but also regarding subject matter. I'm a teacher. A mother of a four and a five year old. I'm a writer. A gardener. A poet (yes, that's a delineation from writer- when one hears "writer" [in this country], one doesn't assume -or even consider- poetry). I'm a lego maniac. I have more projects on my list than potential years of life... and with my genetics, I'm likely to live to my mid-100's (I inherited Grandma Hilde's stubborn amoung other German stoicism traits). My retirement list is on the computer so I can use small (but elegant) font and save on paper. And retirement is nowhere in sight. There is no time in my mind or daily rituals for a blog.
So Why Bother?
Maybe this is what we all need. An outlet. A crossing of paths. A scything through the jungle to make new connections. A method, however indirect and obscure, for formulating our inner landscape into something comprehensible. Not to nameless readers. But for ourselves.
So.... now that I've justified a blog, I'm pretty much out of time and focus for writing one. /sigh. There's a cat in my lap. The sun is inching over the patio. My head's throbbing like a redlined car. And I am exquisitely happy.
I blame the blog for that last one. Not for singlehandedly improving my life, but for it's nature as an act of writing. It's why we write. Why we have to.
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