And in the beginning, there was a blog post about me. Expertly copied and pasted from the ‘about me’ section. Welcome to blogging.
I’m getting a degree in creative writing–or as my engineer friends call it, arts and crafts. It sucks, but I am impressively inept at everything else.
Despite the emotional/brooding/starving artist stereotype, wannabe writers are people too. And we vary like regular people do, believe it or not. I’m a very private, unemotional person. The idea of sharing my writing or personal thoughts with my friends is terrifying. Helluva writer, huh? Unpublished, unemployed, and clinging desperately to how well I did on the SATs years ago, my only claim to actually being a writer would be starvation if I didn’t eat a lot of take-away french fries.
I’ve been asked for years for a link to my blog. It’s expected, and I guess that’s why I rebelled so long. That and laziness. Aren’t you a writer? Fuck off. But I did get inspired and from the most unexpected place. Something clicked. For the first time, I wanted to try this blog business. My experience may follow the pattern of the hundreds of diaries sitting in my childhood home’s attic, first few pages filled with promises of future entries that would not be. Commitment. Tough stuff. Or, I could get into it. Crazier things have happened.
I was inspired by the calorie count website. Yes, I count calories. No, I don’t count calories after midnight or in the form of alcohol. In any case, I recommend the site even if you’re not into obsessing over the nutrients in your panini. There’s this forum where people post a report from their day. The original concept was probably to share with family and friends how well you ate and exercised, etc. But it’s public. And people interact–strangers interact. I got addicted to reading the posts. People write the most personal information in short, grammatically painful bursts. Death, divorce, kids, parents, illness–all the usual stuff. But there’s this underlying theme of insecurity. They talk about being fat. Wanting to be skinny. Cravings, clothes fitting, clothes not fitting, nostalgia for their past bodies, desire for bodies they never had. And they tie being fat into these profound traumatic experiences. Like the anniversary of a mother’s death making you want to eat cake. It’s incredible. No ulterior motives. No long analysis of how they really feel. Just honesty. I want to be like that. Just honest.
So, here I am. Sharing is caring. Strangers are my first step to being a more transparent person. I don’t know what I’ll say. I don’t know if I have anything to say. I’m a quirky person. I’m a weird person. I’m a creep, I wish I was special, etc. Read me. Respond to me. Ignore me. I think the act of putting something out there is all I really want from this. So, here’s another entry into the ether–into the blogosphere. I’ve conformed at longggggg last. Shhhhhh–don’t tell anyone. I probably owe someone money for caving.