Reading what I write makes me sick.
The only real reason this blog keeps sputtering along is that I’ve determined to feed the brave part of me. What I want to do now is curl up with the dog, with no words, and forget that I ever gave myself.
I write and rewrite and I edit till I think maybe the me behind the word craft is quite nearly etched of the picture. Did you like those nice words? Do you know me any better? No? Good.
Since starting the blog, I’ve read and received good blog advice – like, infographics on how to attract traffic, and when to post, and merely sixty highly involved tasks to keep your blog from failing, whatever the goodness that means. Pick a topic; post at the same time; pick a name that people actually can pronounce. It’s not so much that I’ve determined to do my own thing (cue Frank) – it’s that I fail at doing what I’m supposed to do, always, so here I am, launched into introspection way past my bedtime.
The birth of this blog came about because
- I wanted to investigate how to live a good life on a Ramen noodle budget;
- To prove that we’re insane, we bought a falling apart house, and, for my next act, I want to show you how we plan to put it back together;
- I intended to nurse the brave part of me, and remember to allow myself to do what I love . . .
- And in a moment of insanity, I thought someone else might like to skim over it and see what the heck this crazy fly by the seat of her sweatpants chick is thinking.
Over the holidays, a cousin described this place as “a life blog.” I owe this scary status as a life-in-general blog to a hurricane that took out our power and made it almost impossible to work in our house. We’re going on three months sans power and two weeks past the date when we were absolutely supposed to have our power reconnected.
Lest I sit here twiddling for months, I decided to fill in the house progress gaps with the stuff I was thinking. [Cueing the why do they always go to the basement music.]
Thus began the internal war between brave Emily and relatively more likeable Emily.
Oh, no power. Looks like you’ll have to shut up for months.
Maybe not. Maybe I’ll say what I think.
Don’t you dare.
Social stigmas concerning depression!
Floor plans! ESPRESSO.
Today I talked to my friend on the phone. That is my idea of sharing. I’ve realized that most of what I talk about is how I’m messing up at life, or who threw up on me, and how I’m being selfish and clueless and trying to find the words to make it all less tragic than it seems. And today I read an article (kudos to Hännah for hunting these things down) about how journalism is spiraling into narcissism and memoirs. I don’t want to be writing about me, but you said it helped you.
I’m taking a short step back to look at this whole project. I don’t really like it, but I’ve never liked anything I’ve done.
Every day I tell toddlers to use their words, and therapists and teachers exist, in part, because it’s important to use our words. This is me, using my words, instead of stealing your toy and biting you in the knee.
And so concludes the story of why I’m sharing secrets while we wait on electricity.
Here is a horse.