Six years later, I still can't tell you why I write. People point at 'influencers' and complain that they don't deserve the platform they own. This is exactly that, just two decades late to the medium and without the influence. I tend to agree; it is rather pompous to own a website, assuming that your blabbery could attract a rally. Having a following was never my aim, though that sounds like a lie when the brand is inherently self-centred. Being heard was not necessarily my goal but I always felt accountable to make good with the opportunities I had, while simultaneously feeling exhausted by how righteous that sounds. I've wondered if I was diluting the pool, making it harder to find thoughtful writers in an ocean of wannabe's. Maybe people aren't going to the 'pool' anymore and none of it mattered. My pessimism never pestered me long enough and I suppose that's why I'm still here. I enjoy creativity when it flows through my friends and community. I also genuinely enjoy my own platform even while being my own harshest critic.
Some of the things I wrote when I was younger were disgustingly raw. They were stories of broken love and flaws of my own, and friends wondered why I could (or would) put that out there for anyone to read. Some wondered out loud to me and called it courageous and vulnerable, though now I am curious if they meant to use the adjective 'embarrassing.' I don't embarrass easily so it's very possible that I've been gleefully airing my dirty laundry, especially in regards to the ones about boys. I really was sharing my misery without an ounce of courage. Most of the time I wanted them gone, physically out of sight and forever vanished from my mind. I let go with each paragraph. I guess it's accurate to say that the writing helped heal me the way humour and laughter can heal a person.
It bothered me at times that these posts were amongst the most popular. We as a society have written more than enough about men -- in history books, politics, art, etc. I wanted my blabbery to offer something more. For those same reasons, I was unmotivated to write about food (when did eating become a science?), fashion (we don't need more lectures on how women should dress), or travel (a normalized luxury that doesn't need more flaunting). These thoughts became overwhelming and I eventually stopped writing regularly. However, the urge to offer something more never went away. Perhaps I can offer more diversity, more sincerity... to be honest, I'm still fleshing this out many years later. My inability to establish a niche is most likely why this blog never took off.
This is my seventh post since starting to post every two weeks. Though I still write aimlessly and without a prosperous writing career, it feels really good to be here. It's liberating to share the confusion, to be reassured that people identify with the heartbreaks and shortcomings, and that what we are left with is love. So here's to another six years, whatever that may bring.