Remembering

Sometimes I forget who I am, or why I write, or why I have blogs.

I started blogging a few years ago because I had been reading blogs for months and there was only so much you could put in a comment. There were things rolling around in my head and I admit those first few posts were more imitative or responsive than revealing. I found that I liked different writing styles and I wanted to write as well or as funny or as introspectively as the people I found delight in reading.

It had more to do with being carried away to the land of those writing and wanting to follow them, on my site, into this imaginary place where I felt at home.

But then, one day, I was revealing; writing about myself and the things going on with me, the thoughts going on in my head, not reacting to what I'd read on my favourite sites. And soon people were reading my words and living in my life. And while it lasted, it was good.

And then, it felt like I grew up. I moved to California for a while and my life has not ever been the same. In ways that I still don't understand, I am closed. That may sound weird, but I found that I could not write about my experiences or put them into any context that wasn't heartrending. And then I got married and in that, the desire to hold something of myself close to my heart and away from the world began to grow.

I guess that is still there, since my marriage is so new and so perfect (even 3 years in) that to talk about it would almost spoil it. I am surprised by how much I want to keep to myself. But as I begin to read other sites again, I have to remember why I am still here, why I take up residence at this url when I could just give it up to someone else who really wants to write. I remember that getting out the things that go on with me, typing about the pains and joys of life, revealing a little bit more than I think is fair, but a little less than everything is the only way that writing will be real for me. I have faked it for a time, slowly chugging along until the words that are jumbled in would come out on their own, but now I realize that won't happen. The words will not find a way, as some say life did. I have to find the words.

Writing is scary only in how revealing it is. Writing is hard only in our fear of telling. Here's to telling.