As I stepped into the shower this morning, I realized something.
I haven’t been blogging as much as I should.
The motivation was nada, not because my head was not brimming with words (because they do, ALL THE TIME) but because the moment I felt the compulsory notion of giving this blog some life, words just escape me.
I started blogging as a bookmark or a haven for the collections I had, minimizing the paper trail I’ve gathered through the years, but somehow, somewhere, I found out about paid blogging. And, hypocrisy aside, knowing about having to blog, then – cha-ching-cha-ching – seems better than just blogging at all. So, off I went to the world of paid blogging, skimming through the ones who paid the most, and messing the purpose of my wanting to blog in the first place.
A bookmark. Practice writing. Express myself. Penshoppe. In that order.
But as I was defecating (excuse moi) and reading Scott Adams on energy and passion, this blog keeps pushing its way into my head.
This was once my passion, but making it a monetary one made it impossible for me to keep up the energy to write about something I do not even love, or like.
I don’t want that anymore.
I want to blog. I want to rant, and express and unburdened my whirling thoughts in something I can read, or my children can read, or the world wide web can read, for all eternity.
I wonder what more eludes me with blogging, and it somehow have to do with my constant wanting to perfectly write a post – grammar and all – because as it was, I don’t want to appear stupid in public.
WRONG. I’m stupid.
I’m stupid enough to allow myself to wallow in my want for perfection because it’s never going to be perfect.
And there is beauty in flaws.
I was so conscious of my writing that I decided not to write at all.
My blog is full of drafts – half-written rants, and self-imposed importance and opinions that I decided not to finish in the end.
It was so me.
Yeah, yeah, yeah…Scott Adams, I got your point.
Now I’m doing something about my energetic thoughts.
There you go.