“That’s why you haven’t been posting as much lately,” Leila says when I tell her that I’m in the midst of.
That’s one of the reasons. I mean, also, I’ve been ill. And insecure about my life choices. You know…
I’ve written before about my concern about blogging the bad days, the days when my brain is trying to eat me. The sense that putting my negative thoughts into the inter-ether somehow magnifies them, magnetizes them, brings me down more. So this week when I was feeling bad after feeling good, I just didn’t type.
Been thinking I could use a code for it — like this is a black marble day or something. I remember in high school reading about some famous philosopher (Aristotle?) who either did — or suggested one should (must have suggested, this would be a pretty big damn vase) — put a white marble in a giant vase on his good days and a black marble on his bad days, and then at the end of his life, he could break the vase open and have a quantitative measure as to whether he was truly happy.
Incidentally, this is the source of the white/black marble “blackballing” in the old fraternal orders (odd fellows, masons) and later the greek-system version, or so I read once in the curators notes of a museum show about the IOOF et. al, at the Art Institute in Chicago.
Scott kindly left the house with the baby today to brave the farmers’ market, just they-two, so I could have some time to write. Time being another factor in the not-writing.
I’ve alluded previously to other sources of my crisis — the having just attended the conference, the why bother add my voice to the chorus, the everyone else is a better writer/commenter/web designer, blah blah blah.
The should I change the name of this blog or start a new one or start one for Jonah and one for me? Can I just change my handle. I don’t think anyone gets the joke. “Calm.” Ha!
And then there’s the weird anonymous or not factor. I’m not anonymous. I wonder if somehow my family will be harmed because our names are real here. I keep reading about bloggers going through and changing all the names. Based on many of my posts, you not only can find me and my boy, you know where you can hang out with us.
Not to mention how the awareness that my extended family watches this space, and that potential employers and clients may visit, causes me to stop and think before hitting publish. Although pushing that border is also part of the exercise. Can I be THIS honest? How about THIS?
And then, frequency. I have one fabulous blog friend who recommends writing every day, because that way you give yourself more chances of striking gold. I’ve seen many other bloggers advise to newbies to only write when you feel the muse moving. Not to mention the book I just bought at BlogHer entitled “No One Cares What You Had For Lunch: 100 ideas for your blog.”
I wrote about lunch in my last post. Is there an exception clause? I am somewhat of a professional food blogger.
(I bought the book because it reminded me of my Natalie Goldberg reading days when I used to get inspired by exercises. Considering doing MightyGirl’s book in 100 posts here, for the workout.)
And then I’m blocked because I think writing about writer’s block is soooooo uncool. Admitting I wasn’t invited to the blogher parties, talking about not fitting in, envying the skill and successes (and even the artful neuroses) of other bloggers, lifting my insecure writer skirts being both entirely unseemly and so already-done.
I woke up this morning to an incredibly inspiring and uncomfortably yet comfortingly similar story from this blogger, who had decided to give up on blogging — until BlogNosh magazine knocked her back into the game.
Does your mind travel in elegantly self-defeating spirals too?
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