A Writer Writes
At least they are to me. And when I decided to shut down my personal blog and in essence quit writing (for pleasure) about two years ago, I didn’t anticipate the words would become so jumbled in my brain, that so many of them would almost literally become homeless if I let them.
Ok maybe that’s just slightly dramatic.
But drama or not, and my reasons for closing up shop notwithstanding, I am a person who can’t not write. And I don’t mean press releases and bylines.
As a child I filled pages upon pages of diaries fraught with tween, then teen angst. As a young(er) adult, I kept a journal passworded on my PC — but it was about then that the content stopped being so much about me per se and more about the art of forming words to create what I thought were beautiful sentences. Later I would go back and read critically but always feeling content that no matter what, I was a writer. My words made me feel proud. It was the thing I could do.
When blogging became a thing, I was pretty sure I’d just won the lottery because now I could stop writing letters to the editors (and taking shit for it from family members — ”what’s wrong with you?? Only you would do that!”) and sending articles to local papers that edited my stuff to a shell of what it was meant to be — I could actually just write somewhere without much ado. And obviously, being the vapid narcissist that I am, I hoped readers enjoyed my words, but in so many ways, they were for me. My therapy.
Then sadly, the act of putting those words together to form sentences that I believed were beautiful became a nuisance, another thing to check off on my to-do list. They also made me feel vulnerable at a time in my life when I did not need anything extra to add to that emotion — one more reason to quit. Anyhow my blog had gone from being a repository for my words to a home for a lot of sponsored reviews. The few dollars were fun and the free shit was great (who doesn’t want a free trip to SeaWorld?), the novelty seemed to have worn off and also suddenly everyone and their mother was a mom blogger. While I learned so much during those days (including the value a solid mom influencer campaign can add to a brand), it started to feel disingenuous. I looked around at my friends blogs and rolled my eyes at their formulated reviews choc’ full of exclamation points and the words Ah-Mazing about this stroller or that new water park resort — most likely because I had just come from working for a social media agency that specialized in connecting brands with mom bloggers and I knew what happened when you got to Oz and pulled back the curtain on the Wizard. There was little magic to it. Just free stuff and the thrill of seeing your name in very dim lights once in a while. Just not for me anymore.
But I digress.
So many things have happened in the last couple of years in this world, in my world. So many times I was inspired by something I read on HuffPost or TIME or the timelines previously known as my Facebook feed (still in a love relationship with the Twitter!) but I had nowhere to put my thoughts (except out of my mouth and I know that stuff doesn’t always come out as articulately through my mouth). I found myself texting people more than I should have, and *GASP* picking up the phone to spout my rhetoric at unsuspecting friends and family members.
In the years I’ve been in public relations I’ve learned more about the changing media landscape than most people need to know in a lifetime but any good PR person can recite on command. There’s no need for my own fancy blog. No one cares about my unique URL so I’ve returned to blogging in an environment that is not my own, where I can “rent” space for my brain dumps every so often. So I can get my words “in the stream” (AKA your social feeds) and in front of your eyes when I choose.
So I’m back at it. A writer writes. Read at your own risk. And apologies for the swears in advance.