Last night, in the midst of a soul-searching internal monologue about my goals in life (which may or may not have been fueled by one too many vodka seltzers), I concluded that gee, I really need to write more. I should start a blog or...oh, crap!
I've been faced with this more than once. While many of my ambitions in life have changed with the ebb and flow of, well, life...the one thing I've always come back to is my love of writing. I wrote quite actively in high school in both the school newspaper and my top-secret journal, adorned with Lisa Frank smiley faces.
As I progressed to college, I wrote an article here and there for the paper and one too many drab, boring, so-not-my style essays which were, unfortunately, required if I wanted to actually graduate. I also got sucked in to the world of blogging on Xanga. This was B.F. (Before Facebook), of course. We spent hours spilling our hearts out to all our friends about our loves lost and found, our late night parties fed by large quantities of low quality vodka or our math final that we were so nervous about. We gained faux confidence with every "don't worry hun, you'll be fine! xoxo" comment that was applied to our most recent post.
After college, I regularly wrote a column for my hometown newspaper on a topic I loved — coffee. I penned an article for a dance magazine and I wrote a first blog entry of probably 75 different blogs, all of which failed miserably because, as I see it now, I let life get in the way.
I don't want to spend every waking moment with my eyes glued to a computer screen or pad of paper. However, I enjoy writing. I want to write. It's the one thing that has always been a constant in my life. It took me this long to tread through the things I thought defined me — boys, jobs, money — to realize this one passion, this one thing that is part of who I am. I am a writer.
Cliché, I know.
I am determined to write a book before I die. I intend to live until I'm at least 100, so I guess I just always see myself as having all this time, mainly after retirement — when I'm old and wise — to finish my masterpiece.
Then I realize all these observations I draw about the human condition, based on my own life experiences. They're floating out of my mind...and never being recorded.
I guess, long story short — I need to write more. I'm not concerned about my niche or the direction in which this blog is going. I just need to write more — plain and simple — about all the things I mentioned in my first blog. Food, my community, DIY projects, food, holidays, did I mention food?
By projecting my goal of writing more, I feel like I am holding myself accountable to a real, live community — my community. Or maybe just the one loyal reader I have. I hope I at least have one. You gotta start somewhere. It may have taken me until age 28 (this month! yikes!) to really discover and commit to my passion, but better late than never, right?
You can expect to hear more from me, Patch. I promise.