Since September, this blog has really made a comeback. I’ve spent a lot of time brainstorming good content and then expressing it in a presentable manner – every day. My audience has grown exponentially, my stats have gone through the roof; in the conventional sense of the word, my blog is successful. But sometimes I wonder if I’ve completely missed the point of what it means to blog in the first place.
This used to be the place where I let my rawest thoughts fly away. It was revealing, emotionally naked. What about now? My audience has become so large and varied that I feel like I have to write something for everyone. My writer fans, my Christian fans, my idealist fans, my friends and family. Then I have to think about bringing in new readers. My writing has become censored. If I write one thing, I might alienate part of my fan base, but I’ll enlighten another. All I wanted was for my writing to be heard. I wanted the world to know who I am and what I can do. But I’m afraid I’ve lost myself in the process.
My blog can be likened to a home. It used to be my place to stretch out, vent, and walk around in my emotional pajamas. One day, I decided that my venting was somewhat coherent, and that I wanted to go places. So I started decorating this home and inviting people in. My guests loved the decor, so they invited others. As I continued decorating, the crowd grew. Now my safe little home has become a party. I can’t just take my shoes off, lay on the couch, and watch TV. There are too many guests to entertain and too much going on. The figurative hostess can’t just go upstairs and take a nap while her guests mill around in the living room, nor can she kick everyone out. Because I like being heard and having my writing seen. I wanted to be a writer. This is the life I’ve chosen.
But I’m tired. I just want to write about how my day went, or just spit something out without trying to go back and make it eloquent. I want to kick everyone out and say whatever I feel like saying, not worrying about whether I’ve used too much anaphora. But that’s not what it means to be a writer, is it? When hundreds upon hundreds of people read your blog each month, you can’t get lazy with your writing. It can’t be your cozy little cave anymore. It’s a ballroom that requires you to polish it with poise and eloquence.
I’m tired of writing content. I just want to write about me.