I felt quite exulted today, having written my very first blog entry just last night. My decided resolution is to write one blog entry every single day for a year. I am now a blogger, I can justifiably use the word “blog” as a verb. It is in a very, and I mean very, small way an evolution. It would be reasonable to wonder what was stopping me from trying to blog years ago. I love to read, I love to write, what possible reason could I have had to be so very weary of this endeavor. I know what you are thinking, but it wasn’t so much for fear of inadequacy, I can promise you that, although I wouldn’t rule it out 100% either. I just couldn’t reconcile the idea of writing publicly and for no good reason. What would that say about me? Oddly, as little as I typically care about what people think of me, I do always care that people do not misconstrue what I think about myself. I revere the craft of good writing, it fills me with wonder and awe, but I felt that an initiative to blog, would suggest to others, some random others, that I see myself as someone whose writing deserves an audience. I do not suffer hubris well in others, and certainly do not allow it to burgeon within myself. I know all the arguments against letting yourself be limited by such silly considerations, especially since the blogging medium is by its nature for everyone to enjoy, irrespective of skill. But still, I want it to be known that I do not consider myself a writer, not really anyways. How could I, when amongst so many a great, countless others there are also giants like J. M. Coetzee, Amitav Gosh…or most recently discovered the lovely Geraldine Brooks…never you mind all the dead ones. So yea, it took me years to become comfortable with the idea of blogging. But here I am now, the question that might follow is, why now?
It was actually another blog that inspired me to join this here blogging community. Until that blog, I hadn’t read any where I felt anything really beautiful was happening. In my limited exposure to the blogging world, I’ll confess having had little to no luck estimating any writing beyond mediocre. I found that most of the very few well written blogs are either all about content e.g. opinion, advice, review, instruction or marred by some regrettable stylistic aspiration. Not this one though. Although it is a personal blog about nothing wildly unique or remarkable from a girl around my age, it possesses a beautiful flourish for narrative and meaning. The language is restrained, polished, structured at times rather elegantly and at other times plainly; it presents with a real balance between scenery and insight. In a word, it’s all class. I read it and suddenly, just like that, I wanted to blog. I do not write like the aforementioned blogger, in some ways I am simply not capable, but neither do I aspire to write like that. It is the difference between a beautiful canvas depicting a lovely sprawling landscape and a macabre illustration of a vintage surgical set. I appreciate both in equal measure, but only the second is hanging in my bedroom. Furthermore, I have resolved to free-write my blog, as not to get too hung up on anything other than letting thought commit itself to paper i.e. computer screen. Obviously, I hope what I have to say amounts to some kind of substance and maybe develops eventually into something stylistically palatable.
So far, it seems, all I have been able to blog about is blogging. Not exactly reaching for the moon here. I know. But it would appear that a handful of people read my first entry, how anyone finds my obscure little zygote of a blog I have no idea. But if any of you guys are reading this second entry, I wholeheartedly thank you. A few people even followed the blog. Panic. I feel now, to some extent, that I have to offer them something readable. Pressure. Free-writing might become more of an aspiration than a utilized method. I don’t think I can withstand the urge to edit or structure, knowing that I have readers. But I will certainly be trying, I don’t want to be Gainsborough here, I want to be Pollock.