I’ve been writing. Not everyday, but most days I spend an hour or more watching the cursor blink and choosing words.
The trouble is, I am not quite sure what to write. I finished a project that had me busy for weeks. With no deadlines on the horizon, I write for myself alone.
I keep thinking through different ideas in my head, hoping I am so compelled by one I can’t stop myself from writing it. Believing this drive will come, I wait.
As I do, I consider writing longer, better blog posts. In an effort to inspire myself, I decided to find some of my most popular blog posts to feature in my sidebar, perhaps shedding some light on my audience here (which has always surprised me.)
I knew that the advent of facebook and twitter had decreased my comment count significantly, but pulling up my posts ordered by comment count was overwhelmingly depressing. Pages and pages of posts with 20 or more comments five and six years ago, scrolling and clicking back in vain to find something current enough to feature.
The questions descend, like a flood. Why do I keep this blog anymore? Why do I write at all? Why can’t I come up with a marketable idea of what to be when I grow up? I’m a grown-up now, right?
Maybe this neurosis is the best sign that I need to keep on writing. Perhaps in writing I will find the answers that I long for, or more comfort in my questions.
Even in my insecurity, I know that people read this blog, even if they don’t comment, but I’ve never kept it for them, I keep it for me. It is a gift to have eleven years of life captured in blog posts. When I read them, I remember. Not just what I wrote about, but what I felt and what life was like, who I was. I am grateful for the time I have spent blogging and I carry on another day.