I read somewhere that the average blogger lasts three months at his endeavor, unless his blog is discovered, regularly read, and commented on, generating a sort of community in the little corner he has created.
I've blogged for five months now and have had a few good discussions with my readers. The best thing about it, I think, has been the openness it forced me into. My moods cycle like the seasons (although there are more of them and they are less predictable). I've always, since I can remember, withheld myself from other people, which often leads to severe loneliness and personal myopia and the natural consequence of not seeing past one's own nose (even if it's a long one, like mine) - depression. On several occasions some of you have helped steer me away from that jagged shore on my tempest-tossed sea. Thank you.
My original purpose for this blog hasn't up and flown away, but the first stated purpose has changed some. I no longer want to keep a personal journal. It's hard to explain, really.
What it comes down to is that I am sick of myself. And I'm sad. And I'm afraid. I'm afraid that I'm going to live another 40 years and still be sitting in front of my computer bitching about the world and philosophizing about life and theologizing about God. But none of it matters. I don't live.
When I was 10 years old I decided I wanted to become a writer when I grew up. The funny thing is that I stopped writing when I actually became an adult. I spent many years reading, filling in my missing education, and many more years (with some overlap) fighting the paralysis of grief. These past few months have brought me joy, as I returned semi-regularly, to my first great passion. I love writing. Nothing else so faithfully delivers an adrenalin rush (except maybe having babies, which perhaps explains why I keep doing that).
The first time I stopped writing it was to read and learn. This time it's to find my soul. I know it's somewhere buried inside me - you'll even catch glimpses of it in my writing. But at the end of the day, my words are just another shovelful of dirt I throw on the grave.
I don't think I'll stop posting altogether, but I'll be using it more for the second stated purpose: to keep my friends abreast of life happenings, etc.
Well, I guess that's about it.
5 comments:
Ummm... NO.
Done and dusted. Well done you (in best JK style :)
Thanks, Andrew.
Hmm. So for the addition of the third swimmer in the TenBrink gene pool...
I wish I were half as great of a writer as either one of you or Michael are. I think I'd maybe be close to having myself figured out. After reading Michael's post I feel quite the same, just would have never found those words to express it. I don't have internet at my house (kind of like when we used to rent a VCR to watch a family movie) so I seldom get to sit and read your blog. But when I do, I almost always cry the whole way though it.
It might not be anything more than words to you, but it's got so much of me in it that I think I might begin to use the "H" word.
Guess we'll just have to do coffee more regularly!
I love you, Rae.
Michael- Thanks for the flattery. I suppose you owe it to me for early on devastating my confidence in my singing abilities. (But you were right, I was trying to sound like Darren Haasenvoort.)
Laura (sister laura, not Isis)- I'm touched, really. This blog is full of things I know you share, though we never talked about them, directly. I'm sure you know it isn't anywhere near the same thing to converse with me as to read my writing (I'm a crockpot kind of thinker). But it wouldn't hurt me to work on conversational skills -and I do so like coffee.
In writing, it's practically a prerequisite to have no clear idea about oneself. I heard an author (Katherine Paterson) say in a lecture that whatever causes her grief and doubt, whatever confounds or perplexes her- that's what she sits down and writes a book about. She said, "I write to understand".
I love you, too.
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