There is nothing new on this blog. Nearly two years ago, while unemployed, I made this blog. I had a lot of time between employers not calling me and walking the dog. I was fresh: the topics were endless, my mind was full of three-paragraph posts just waiting to be published. I had a pithy endings to wrap up my thoughts. I was occasionally funny and usually insulting. I reread my old posts and smiled with pride. I did it: I gave those thoughts that were rattling around in this tin brain of mine a home.
As a kid, the ultimate achievement for me as a writer would be for strangers to read what I wrote. Well I achieved it. My ten-year-old self would be proud. Sure, she didn't know that everyone would have a Facebook account and people would read about people brushing their teeth and eating a bag of cookies with rapt interest, but nonetheless, strangers read this blog. Strangers from all around the world who googled "dds in a bra" or "preserved artifacts food" or "moldy cheese" ended up on my site for a few seconds and maybe even read a word or two.
A few strangers from the blog world became like friends. I read other blogs with the same enthusiasm that I wrote my own. I looked forward to the
But lately, I haven't read the other blogs. I struggle to think of anything to write on my own. I feel that everything I have to say I have said before: just this time I'm using a semicolon instead of a period. My enthusiasm is waning; I am restless. I know I never made it in the blog world. I never exceeded 15 subscribers. My sitemeter hits are still under 20,000. It seems too early to retire now without reaching any level of blogging prestige.
But prestige was never my intention. Accolades are appreciated, but not necessary. What I wanted was a place to log my thoughts knowing someone could read them. I wanted to practice writing and see if it had the effect on anyone else that it does on me. And whether or not it affected anyone positively or negatively, I may never know. But I do know how it has affected me.
I have rediscovered the one passion I've ever had: writing a book. I'm not good at much, but when my pen strikes the paper, I come alive. It is in my blood. Green ink pumps through my veins. I read on a blog, "don't follow your dreams; chase them." I immediately sat up straighter (and not just because of the semicolon) - it was quoted for me. My dream is to write a book. It takes a dedication I haven't yet committed to. I don't expect it to be published, just finished. I will write the book for myself. And if anyone else ever reads it, that will be a happy surprise.
Next to me is my purple spiral notebook. Twelve pages have been scrawled on with my green ink. But the rest of the pages lie empty, waiting to be written on. A story is in me, it just hasn't been told yet.