Nervous Girl

Why I still blog

I attended a great live talk this week on the state of the Mom Blogosphere 2012 that made me think a lot about why I blog. I have had this blog for several years--six? seven? And although it lay dormant for a few, I always had intentions of coming back.

Apparently there is some money to be made by blogging. I have no idea how much. That's never really been my focus. I'd like to say that's because I am a purist, that I blog to lay bare my innermost soul to the world, to touch the hearts and minds of my readers. But that's not quite true; I could probably count on one hand the number of hearts I've touched, and as for touching minds? Highly unlikely.

The main reason I haven't been blogging for dollars is that I haven't figured out how to do it in a way that seems genuine to me. I have friends who have blogs on which they review or promote products. Their blogs are well written and informative. They don't feel fake or forced. I've had a few offers to review products. Most of them I've turned down, because it's just not something that felt right to me. I know in my heart that I would not turn pirouettes in real life over the virtues of tungsten wedding bands. So I'm not going to do it on my blog for a few bucks. Or a tungsten wedding band. (And just what would I do with that band, anyway? Say to my beloved, "Oh, sweetheart, I'd marry you all over again...with this inexpensive yet highly durable ring that I got for free!")

So, I'm not blogging for fortune, and I'm clearly not blogging for fame, since this blog has a readership of approximately two. Of which I am one. Mark you: I would love to be one of those bloggers that everyone knows and adores, to have all eyes follow me as I walk around BlogHer and to have all the cool bloggers want to be my friend. I would like to be in a cool blogger posse. I suspect the fact that I can even imagine a cool blogger posse marks me as terminally unhip. I am completely cognizant of the fact that when all eyes are following me around the room, I should check to make sure the back of my skirt isn't tucked into my pantyhose. Again. Dammit.

Why blog, then? For the same reason now as six or seven years ago. This blog is like off-site storage for the clutter in my brain. I suppose I could keep a diary to the same end. That would be more private, but would eliminate the other advantage of a blog: the chance that on any given day, I might write something that would connect with someone. That there might be that moment of recognition, that spark, that, "Oh my God, me too!" It's okay if there's not; those things can't be manufactured. In fact, I think it's what happens when you stop playing to the gallery and start speaking your truths. Whether or not anyone hears or agrees, those things are still true. And when that truth resonates with someone else, it glows, and you get a glimpse of what is true for them.

It's a little like looking out of your window in the dark and seeing a light on in a neighbor's kitchen, and someone reading or laughing or pouring coffee. And suddenly you can picture yourself there too, and you know somehow you'd be welcome.

And that, I guess, is why I still blog.

Happy Slightly-Used-But-Still-in-Excellent-Condition Year!

And let us pretend that I didn't resolve to blog every single day I had access to a computer, shall we?

Actually, I didn't make any resolutions, per se, in the sense of writing down a list of habits I hope to break or acquire or accomplishments I hope to log. Instead, I'm looking to continue to advance on the goals I identified late last year, before my husband's hardware issue and the holidays derailed me: write, and hopefully earn my bread that way; feed my body good food and exercise it so it will be healthy; and have my home clean and organized enough so that I can welcome guests at any moment without embarrassment. But I am not resolving to do these things.

I dislike resolutions, because once they're broken, they're broken. You can patch them back together again, but I can see every time I look at them where I've clumsily taped them together. They start to seem not worth it: if I can't do it perfectly, why bother? And it's only taken me forty-something years to realize that I can't do it perfectly. I'll never do it perfectly. But I have to do something. It makes me too unhappy not to.

So I'll continue, I hope, to lurch forward: writing most days, eating mostly healthfully and exercising more than I used to, cleaning enough to make my house welcoming but not enough to feel like a drudge. I'll forgive myself in advance for the inevitable slip-ups. I'll not worry if I can't see every step of the way to the goal I hope to reach. I won't even worry if I can't completely identify the goal, as long as I can identify a generally correct direction in which to lurch. I'll do things that make sense to me. I will remember that I have sense, even if someone tries to convince me otherwise.

I'll make a lot of soup. Not because it necessarily advances any goals, but because I really like soup. I'll pray for people I dislike, because it really does seem to help unclench the tight little fist of my heart--and who knows but that it helps them become more likable? I'll stop saving my good underwear for an important occasion. I am reasonably sure I'll be able to buy more "good" underwear if needed. Also, I struggle to imagine the occasion for which I would be saving that good underwear. My husband sees my drawers almost every day. And any situation in which a wider audience sees me in my panties will probably have overriding components that render the condition of my underwear irrelevant: a public mental breakdown in which I strip down in the mall fountain, for example, or a nuclear attack in which my outer clothes are vaporized.

I will not attempt to eat collard greens ever again. I hate collard greens. Every several months I try them because they are good for me, or someone tells me I would love collard greens the way their grandmother prepares them. No. I am here to tell you that God's grandmother could prepare collard greens and I would not like them. Life is too short to waste shoveling collard greens past my lips. (I have not given up on kale, however).

All of which is a way of saying I'm hoping to be kinder to myself, and hopefully to others, too. And if I manage to accomplish that most of the time, it will be a very good year indeed. I wish the same for you. Let me know if you want some soup.