There’s 57 items in my list of posts, some of them remain in draft status. Probably forever.
I’ve been here before. The momentum, it wanes and wears off. Just like most things. The creative fire has dimmed.
I wrote several times a week for over a year. I had never had a streak last that long before. I always felt like I had something to say. The thoughts in my head were finally making their way out. This blog became my most used outlet.
I realized fairly quickly that I wasn’t really writing to an audience. The few randoms plus a couple friends was hardly an audience. Not that their readership doesn’t matter; it does. But that realization saved me from getting sucked further into the belief that I needed to pump out content and have this pretty, themed blog that people flocked to because my words were so wordy and awesome and my pictures were good (no, they sucked because 99% of them are iPhone photos).
It’s okay. I was happy with just having a place to get the thoughts out there, put together in something fairly coherent, maybe throw in a story about a piece of furniture I like or my daydreams about a future house I might DIY someday.
Of course, writing mushy stuff about parenthood eventually came. I stopped worrying myself over having a theme to this blog thing I created. It was just a collection of random thoughts and words and feelings and images. It still is.
The last time I wrote was October 13. I remember opening the blank Word document because just moments before I realized I hadn’t written in weeks.
I made a blog post about a chair I wanted to reupholster (I still d0). But let’s be honest; it won’t happen right away. There are way too many other things vying for my attention lately.
The other day I convinced my grandfather to move the unused dining room table into the kitchen extension where we eat every single day, to replace the wobbly table that stood in its place. I was proud of this accomplishment. I took pictures and thought I would make a blog post about it.
Who cares? Who wants to read about some random person who moved some furniture around?
But if this blog isn’t for anyone else, why not?
Whatever, the pictures remain on another digital device and I’ll probably never blog about it.
I’ve taken a lot less pictures over the past few months. I went from crazily snapping photos with my iPhone every chance I could get (about 99.5% Sienna) to maybe a picture or two a week. It’s not that I don’t like taking pictures, because I do. However, it started to sink in that I was becoming one of those people so fixated on taking photos for the sake of sharing for the sake of attention that I was missing the moment.
There’s a pretty big gap between the things you think you should be doing, and what’s actually happening. Constantly telling myself that I’m doing too much, too little, not being a good enough friend or daughter or wife or person, that I’m slipping down the slope of madness when my frustration gets the best of me and I yell at my 1-year-old. I forget that I’m human and I cannot control everything. I forget that life really is a roller coaster. That I’m not supposed to be happy all the time. I’m not supposed to figure it out. There’s nothing to figure out.
I’m confused as hell most of the time. I don’t know why I’m sad or frustrated. I don’t know exactly what it is that kicks me in the ass and makes me work, while other days I couldn’t be bothered to do more than pour myself another cup of coffee and park it on the couch. I grow less and less interested in the drama of others, in the ever changing trends, in the mindlessness I seem to witness every day. I’m tuned into something else, something greater than myself, that much I know. But I’ve officially opened Pandora’s box and while I’m happy to be more aware, I have to accept what comes along with that.
The fact is that there is usually so much on my mind that I am having a more difficult time disseminating the information into more clearly defined ideas and topics to muse about. I feel like I probably don’t have anything too valuable to say, so I may as well keep conversations private and my writing to a minimum until I’m more sure of my stance on something. Until I feel like my words are worthy enough for that publish button…
But then there are times, like now, where I say fuck it. I ramble and I hit publish anyway.
So while I’m twisting my way along, I guess I’ll keep this little corner of the Internet around to remind myself of where I’ve been, and to continue to put it out there thinking maybe someday someone else could connect. In the meantime, it’s good enough for me.