I have a healthy dose of self-consciousness coursing through the neural networks of my brain. Or maybe it’s an unhealthy amount. Who knows. But it’s that hyper-awareness of how my actions will be perceived by others that has always stopped me from doing something like this.
It sounds so pretentious, doesn’t it? I don’t want to be associated with the stereotyped lifestyle of a “blogger.” (Good God, just typing that makes me want to shudder.) I don’t want people to think that I won’t be able to stop talking about what I’m currently writing. I don’t want people to think that I’m going to be obsessed with turning every single experience into a blog post. I don’t want people to think I’m a self-absorbed bitch who is only concerned about “putting my thoughts out there.”
But, as a good friend told me (yes, Andreya, that friend is you), I can’t let the spark die just because of what I think people might think about what I’m thinking. And by “spark,” she means my love of writing.
I love writing.
I love everything about it, from the physical actions of writing things down with a pen or hearing the clickety-clack of a keyboard to the mental actions of outlining plots and revising messy paragraphs. I freaking love it more than anything. (Well, anything within reason. I obviously love my family more than I love a pen scratching notes down on a piece of paper.)
So I am going to do this blog-thing (and I’m going to try to stop wincing every time I say, write, or think the word “blog”) and I’m going to like it. Why? Because I love writing and keeping this blog-thing going (shudder, wince, cringe) will help me get my writing out and about. Kind of. Sort of. Maybe. Hopefully.