Blogging keeps it real
I often think about why I choose blogging for my writing.
One thought that often comes up is whether it’s a call for attention. I don’t think it is. Sure, it’s nice if others appreciate a post, but that’s really just a lovely little bonus.
Then the next question arises: if that’s the case, why don’t I just write for myself without publishing publicly?
My usual self-reply is that I really appreciate the community that comes with blogging. True. I also tell myself that it’s because I love tinkering with my blog. Also true.
Still, it’s never really felt like the full answer. It’s always felt like one important piece of the puzzle was missing. I’ve been searching, but hadn’t found it... until today.
Reading Eka’s great post I feel happy to write again made me realize something I’d never thought about before. She writes:
Perhaps only writing for myself is what made writing such a sad, meaningless chore.
The sentence stayed with me, slowly taking a slightly different form. An extra word, another one gone. Finally, I was left with:
“Perhaps only writing for myself is what made my writing sad.”
There it was, the missing piece.
When I’m only writing for myself, the texts get sad. Not in a good, therapeutic, or healing way. Just sad, boring, and “deep” in quite a pathetic way.
It’s like there’s this false idea within me that says this is how you’re supposed to write when you’re on your own. A romanticized image of the lonesome writer, putting down troubled thoughts with pen and paper in a contemplative cottage in the middle of nowhere.
That’s the mask I put on when I write for myself. That’s the costume I wear when I’m not blogging. It’s storytelling, and I’m the method actor trying to convince myself that the story I tell is true.
To be honest, it feels quite embarrassing to write about it like this. But at least the words are genuine.
It’s a blog post, and it’s real.