Okay, I get it. Online writing has migrated to “platforms” and then then the platforms have migrated to even more platforms, and Twitter has remained its glorious self throughout it all, and the art of blogging died an ignominious death one sad night in about 2011, but I’ve just got to face the truth: I am a blogger at heart, and will be till 2080, or whenever it is I die.
I just can’t get around it. And at this time of CoronaQuarantine, I have realized it’s time I show up and contribute to the world in the ways that are right for me.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve tried to do the platforms, and they’re kinda fun. I like Instagram all right but I’m just not as huge into visual art (which is probably why I especially love instastories and their 24 hour shelf life more than the actual feed).
Facebook has its purposes and can be really fun sometimes too. Tiktok is a blast, and Viva is always pumped when I’m willing to learn a new dance with her. All of these things are well and good, and I know plenty of writers who use these outlets to write really heartfelt, poignant messages that get their noble thoughts out into the world, and I can really sense that it feels right to them. And that is seriously such a good thing.
I have tried to do the same. I really have. I have tried to let go of the idea that I need a space *meant* for writing (as opposed to photos or vids or whatever) in order to be able to write. Why not innovate? Why not make whatever platform my own? But I just can’t do it. It always feels clunky and weird to me. When I strategize it feels strategic and inauthentic. When I just go with it, it starts to gain a bit of momentum, but then it just feels weird and off.
Because what I really want is a place to sit down and write my thoughts–and then post them.
That’s it. I don’t want tiles. I don’t want videos. I don’t want status updates. I don’t want a meme collection. (I mean, I love all of those things and share them widely and will continue to do so, but that that isn’t at the heart of my creativity.)
I want a place where there is a cursor blinking in a big box of blank space, where I can feel the full brunt of creative force work its way through me and know that it will all belong, that I don’t need to truncate anything, that I won’t hit some ridiculous word limit, that I am publishing in a space *meant* for words. And that’s just it: blogging is meant for words. And word lovers. And I am that. The other places are meant for other things people love, like photos and videos and aphorisms and memes (which are basically comics) and I honor that love. I’m so glad these media exist for all of us, and I am so blessed by the ease so many brilliant brains have in getting novel thoughts, jokes and concepts into the world. But I find myself going back again and again to a yearning to publish my *writing* as such. As writing. And that is blogging. Blogs are what opened up online publishing to the masses, and that’s what I yearn to do: publish my fucking writing.
(I also need to face a secondary truth that I have known for a long time but that hasn’t really factored into my online writings except for on rare occasions, and that is that I say fuck a lot. A lot a lot. Along with all the other swears. And I’m tired of censoring myself because I’m afraid of the grandmas. I mean that literally. In the past, when I have chosen to say fuck in VERY specific and appropriate instances (like posts about trauma), I have had grandmas literally write me full diatribes about how disappointed they are of me and how they can’t read my stuff anymore. That used to make me feel bad. It used to make me worry I would “lose readers” (whatever that means?) But worse, on another level, it used to make me worry that people would stop liking me for being me for saying something I would say in almost any verbal conversation. And that isn’t a healthy worry. So after a lot of self work that’s been happening over recent years, and a lot of evaluation of *why* I’m so afraid of disappointing people in those kinds of ways, I’m finally at a place where… wait for it… I don’t give a fuck what the grandmas think anymore. This is me, and I’m proud to be me. And if you don’t like me, or don’t feel able to read certain words over other words, that’s okay. I get it. I’ve been there. I honor you. But I just can’t cater to you anymore because it is at the cost of my own authenticity.)
Anyway, so, yeah. This is it: a blog post. A piece of writing about some things I’ve been thinking lately. Nothing breathtaking. Nothing life-changing. Just the written musings of a guy who loves words and loves writing and has found deep value in sharing his thoughts in this interesting, evolving venue because of the ways doing so has brought SO MANY amazing people (like you! yes, you!) into his life over the years.
I made a lot of jokes a couple posts ago about how OF COURSE this isn’t a blog, it is a PERSONAL WEBSITE where I publish pieces of WRITING, but honestly? Fuck all that.
This is a blog. And I am a blogger. And I love it. And I hope you still love it too. But if not, that’s totally okay. You do you! I will just be here in my corner of 2011 doing this thing I love because I am a writer and this is where I experiment and share and get playful and creative and I like it that way.
And to those who stick around, and have stuck around for all of the ups and downs of my journey, thanks so much! I love you! I miss you. I miss this. I’ve missed us.
It feels really good to be back.
This was a fun Quarantine Post! Until the next one, take care of yourselves, and try not to eat your couch cushions like that lady on the reality TV show about weird habits whose name I can’t remember.