I’ve mentioned my desire to blog more often and on a more regular basis. Here’s my problem with that: I can’t think of anything interesting to blog about all that often. What’s the point of writing a boring blog about the mundane goings-on of my daily life? If I want to discuss politics, or a news item, or anything else, that might require a lot research because I’d want to get my facts straight. I don’t choose to spend the time required. I want anything I write to be the best it can be. To make a point or make those who read it think, or to take something old and make it new and fresh. Otherwise, why bother?
A few years ago along with a book entitled The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron I started journaling. I journaled before that, actually, but in a different way. Supposedly, the act of journaling (she suggests writing three pages each morning) opens up your creativity. There were many days I struggled to write three pages about nothing, but I made myself do it.
I’ve tried to continue to journal, although I’m a lot looser about it and it isn’t a daily must for me. To conserve paper, when I get to the end of a notebook, having written on only one side of the page, (why?) I flip it over and start writing on the blank pages from the back.
Today I accidentally opened my current notebook from the front which begins in October 2003. I never/rarely go back and read my old journal entries, but this morning I did. It’s interesting (to me at least) to see the journey I’ve been on for the past six years. It’s a journey I thought was relatively new, but I see a thread running through those pages that tells me it isn’t new at all.
So I thought, hmm, would this make an interesting blog? To transfer those journal entries into posts? It would certainly save me from having to come up with something new every day. Yes, I know. The height of laziness.
They say to write well one must open a vein and bleed onto the page. I wonder if anyone would be interested in watching me bleed? In my quest of discovering my true, authentic, genuine self, a journey I now see I’ve been on for quite awhile, what’s wrong with being real? What’s wrong with letting others see my doubts and questions and faith?
I’ve thought about the need to edit the content which I’d rather not do. However, I may, on occasion, do so to protect the privacy of the people in my life. Maybe to protect my own privacy. But if I edit, I’ll make it clear that I did so. I hope those occasions will be rare.
I ask those who are mentioned or who recognize themselves in the posts that follow to understand, this is my story, told from my perspective, and is not meant to malign or hurt anyone I’ve come into contact with whose name found its way into these pages. I will most often use initials instead of names, simply because to those who don’t know me, the names will be meaningless and those who do know me will most likely know to whom I’m referring.
I don’t think anyone reads my blog anyway, so the likelihood of anyone I know discovering what I’ve posted is pretty slim. But if they do, I want them to know, it isn’t my intention to offend or embarrass them. This is my life. My vein. My blood.
