This blog is a big deal to me. It always has been.
Only for the past year or so, though, have I attempted to care if it were a big deal to other people too.
It’s something about me I’m not fond of – this apparent need to be liked. I never thought I had that very much. I’ve found myself censoring more, saying less. Trying to appeal…and for what?
The pull of my blog has always been that it is mine. That when everything was reduced down to work and play and manifesting your dream, that I had something I had done for myself. Just for the pure craft. Except I wasn’t. I was writing hoping to be popular, hoping for someone to notice me.
There were all sorts of levels of bullshit surrounding that revelation. I was ashamed. I was embarrassed. I was not surprised.
Earlier this week, I found a document that brought me to sobering reality. The-Writers-Manifesto (that’s a pdf link, and if you download it you need to tell him how great he is). After reading it, I wanted to slap myself and write books at the same time.
So with much pain and heartbreak, I’ve come to the realization that it’s okay if no one reads what I write.
I’m not writing for anyone else.
I will have a record – a concrete one – of days, months, years. However meager it may seem, I am shaping my legacy on my own terms.
Whether I move on with my ideas or simply do this and nothing else, it’s okay with me.
And by being myself, whatever happens, this piece of me exists. No one can pay for that.
I ramble a lot.
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