Hesitation

I used to write here with glee, eager to slap words on the page, to paint pictures with a big sloppy brush.  Those were in the days before my kids had Internet access, before my real name was attached to this blog, before people I knew in real life knew that I did this crazy thing called blogging.  Back then, people didn’t even know what a blog was.

Even when I could still imagine I was somewhat anonymous, I always did try to be careful about what I said, aware that my words were out loud even though they came through my fingertips and not my lips.  But I’m even more careful now.  I keep more and more of my observations and judgments and stories to myself.

It’s kind of sad, really.

A handful of bloggers who started blogging when I did have published books and built sturdy platforms around which their tribes clamor.  They’ve appeared on morning talk shows and had blog excerpts featured in Good Housekeeping and have powered on, creating Facebook communities and more.  They go to blog conferences and speak to wanna-be bloggers.  They have cooking shows and cookbooks.  They are everything that I am not.  They are eager to dig up every inch of their figurative back yards to sift through the soil to uncover treasure or bones or something worth something they can write about.

Instead of gaining momentum with my blog, I have dragged my feet and slammed on the brakes.  When others sped up, I slowed down.  I’ve pretty much taken the exit so I could get out of the fast lane.  Five years ago, when I started working full-time and our whole lives shifted (jobs coming and going and coming again), I stopped writing here as much.  The stories I wanted to tell would breach the privacy of my kids and my husband.  I had less time and truthfully, less to describe.  That’s what happens when you suddenly begin spending forty hours a week working at your computer.  What is there to say?  “Today my kids were annoyed that I worked for eight hours.  Then I made dinner.  The end.”

Mostly, I didn’t want to say something I’d regret, to blurt out stuff that would have eyebrows raising.

I never wanted to write a blog that told other people what to do, how to live.  I didn’t intend to shape my daily life into a devotional thought.  I just wanted to write about what was happening, to tell stories that might help me remember and sometimes, help me understand my life.

I write because it helps me think.  It helps me figure things out.  It gives me perspective.

I can never stop writing even though this blog is so neglected.  I am still writing, but more often, in a sound-proof booth so no one can hear me.

And, of course, I’ll continue to putter along here, mostly unnoticed, determined to tell stories from time to time.

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Hesitation

8 thoughts on “Hesitation

  1. Yvonne I. says:

    Yours was one of the first blogs I started reading – I seriously don’t even remember how I found it! I have enjoyed it so much because you are very much like me. Whether or not you write often, I will still be around to read it. I pretty much stopped writing in my blog after I started working at the Chamber of Commerce – living a public life for real, I didn’t want my private life “out there” more than what can be seen on a daily basis. So I understand what you mean – however I probably only had about 6 people who read it – most of them friends. Well, it’s off to work I go – have a great “rest of the week”!

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  2. Julana says:

    I miss those early days, when “blighted beauty” could send our collective blood pressure up ten points. I think that was the beginning of the end….. 🙂

    You’re wiser now, and the internet is more dangerous.
    I’m in the same boat, on a smaller scale, and for different reasons.
    I did enjoy the smaller community of relatively orthodox Christian women, back then, though.
    The world of people is getting at once smaller and larger, all the time.

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  3. Mary says:

    You were one of the first blogs I started reading religiously, and despite the fact that I clearly noticed the apathetic tone the blog took on, I remained a faithful reader…sure, I used to check every day, now I come by and check once a month or so, but the faithful still following this blog is testament to the fact that you have a brillant talent to move people with you insight and perspective. It was the annonimity that allowed you to tell your story, you can’t undo that, you are out of the closet now….I hope one day you can muster the courage to allow your own self worth to prevail over the fear of being judged. In any case, thank you for many years of great prose….and…I do miss you….

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  4. I love when you write here, but find that I am in a strange stage of my own writing, too. I get it, I do hope this is just some weird growing pain and I also hope for the good ol’ days again. Everything comes back in style again, right?

    Steph

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  5. I’ve been reading your blog since 2007 or so, and blogging myself for about 9 years. I find myself in a similar place – and this entry mirrors a lot of my own observations. I wonder about the people who seem to want to expose everything or confront many.

    I post once in awhile for my own small audience (family, mostly – 🙂 and have reverted to that familiar paper journal for the rest.

    But your blog will remain in my blog reader – because I like what you say, even if it’s infrequent.

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  6. I know exactly how you feel. I can’t even remember when I started blogging, it was on another web address than I am now, I just know it was a very, very long time ago. I have done the same thing as you, slowed down, and nearly stopped. I don’t know how I wound up reading you back then, but I’m glad I did… 🙂

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  7. There were several reasons I pulled back from blogging. The number one reason being that watching grand kids during the day made me too tired to think clearly in the evenings, when I had some time to write. Then, a few people that I knew, but not very well, started blog stalking me. That just felt SO weird. So, now I post way too many pictures of my grand kids.
    I miss you. Please don’t ever stop completely, because I would cry. And I never cry.

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