I've been thinking about blogging lately, thinking about words. About their power and intensity; about their beguiling charm. I've been wondering, Why do I do this?
For the past two months, as I've been watching with rapt attention, two wonderful bloggers have been sharing their thoughts, their friendship, and their letters to one another. It's created a ripple affect amongst a small corner of the blogging community and its created a ripple affect in my heart.
And to be honest, it's created a bit of writers block.
Well, no, not writers block, really. Because, you see, I have been writing, I am always writing. Since the day I learned to form painful and imperfect letters I've been filling page after page, notebook after notebook. So I am still writing, just not here.
In the last few weeks I've been coming here and sitting motionless. Searching for something, a snippet, a small story to share, not so much because I want to but because I don't want to see this space lay fallow... My heart hasn't been much into it. Or maybe my heart has been more into it? Because I am searching for every word instead of simply letting the flow move to my fingers?
So why do I do this? Not writing in general, I know why I write. I write because to me, to write is to think. To write is to live. If I don't mark it out- sometimes haltingly and sometimes with a fervor that results in cramped fingers and words missing on the smudged page- if I don't live it that second time it's as if the thought never existed, the experience was half lived.
But why so publicly?
It's a question worth asking, even in this time and age of Facebook status' and Tweets and the apparent end of all privacy. It's a question worth asking even of my generation, oversharing narcissists the lot of us.
It's not as if it doesn't have it's downfalls. I've never been much moved by the occasional mean comment or e-mail, but I wont go so far as to say I enjoy receiving them. I was once memorably told that I am not only egotistical for naming my children like I did but that they will surely grow up to hate me for it. If this is because they are biblical names, or because they are old testament names, or because they are long and kind of heavy names wasn't clear, but the idea that my kids will have yet another reason to hate me didn't brighten my morning.
It seems perhaps relevant to me that in weeks of pondering I still don't know. I don't know why I blog.
I guess what I'm saying is not knowing why I write is suddenly rendering me silent. If I don't know why I write how do I know what to write?
What was once easy is now hard. What am I doing here?