On Blogging

I’ve been very hesitant to begin a blog. I’ve been dragging my feet on the idea for a year or more, plagued by worries about:

– privacy,

– the long term implications of publishing stories about my baby’s foibles which will surely be received differently by my son when he grows up than in the spirit that I intended them,

– the danger of developing serious blogging addiction,

– adding another level of commitment to my already overcharged life – and yet another thing I might eventually feel myself a failure for,

– the inevitable negative responses I’m going to receive over the inevitably controversial things I’m going to say,

– hurting my family with the true things that I feel, if I have the courage to write that truth,

– having all my all jumbled thoughts and emotions and follies placed together in one spot, where not only can I not hide from them, but I can’t hide them from others – whatever blog I end up creating will be a very public, permanent, visual catastrophy,

– and wondering whether I really have anything meaningful to say.

But in the past month, the number of times I have received unexpected, and unequivocal, praise over my writing can’t be ignored. People are asking me to write. They’re thanking me when I do. A complete stranger called me up at work this morning to effusively complement me on a post I’d just written on one of our employee fora (I refuse to call them forums – just the first of many appearances of my anal inner linguist). A family member told me that if I didn’t submit one of my recent stories (periodic e-mails I send to my family and friends updating them on what my toddler’s been up to lately) to the Globe and Mail’s Life section, she would. Enough! I’ve heard. And I’ve decided to listen.

And funnily enough, that fear up there about not having anything to say? The least of my worries. If anything, I’ll develop a healthy fear of saying too much. I’m finding that the more I write, the more I want to write. I’m carrying a notebook in my backpack again – something I’d given up for years. I’m jotting down ideas all day long. I’m muttering to myself at the bus stop, and while walking, a habit that had been reserved lately for when I’m really pissed off at my husband. And the number one, true indicator that I’m hooked on blogging is that I’m giving up time from reading in order to post. Sacrilege! There you have it. An addict is born.


1 comment so far

  1. moosilaneous on

    I commend you for your determination. And I look forward to all you might write about! You go, girl.

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