Over the past few years, I’ve spent countless hours staring into a computer screen, trying to figure out how to communicate my half-baked thoughts to the blogging universe. Too many of my posts have been of embarrassingly low quality. I’ve probably missed, in total, at least 40 full hours of sleep due to this blog. My stats decrease. My fingers get tired of typing. My brain exhausts its creative juices. To be honest, blogging sucks.
But I love it.
There’s something so magical about seeing my own words and musings appear before me as my fingers command them, and publishing a post with the knowledge that people will hear me. This blog catches thoughts that I’d left unexpressed, intelligent remarks I’ve failed to make, ideas I’d forgotten, feelings I’d ignored. Everything I write here is my own. Nobody can ever restrict my style or format, tell me what to write, or plaster corrections all over my work. I am my blog; my blog is me. I try to remember this when it gets difficult. When my stats plummet, when I lose sleep, when my writing isn’t turning out well, I remind myself that this is the destiny I’ve chosen. A blogger’s calling is a river that begs to be navigated, a garden that begs to be watered. I am making a conscious choice to follow my inspiration’s lead with full determination. And when my inspiration abandons me, I will blaze my own trail and press on until I find it again.