The blogging world has changed so much.
And some of it’s amazing, and some of it, not so much.
I totally get the “not so much” part of it though.
It’s the necessary next step, the natural progression…and I am the first to say, I fall right into that “not so much” part of it pretty often.
It’s why I get boring. And uninspired. And consider just shutting it all down.
I’m curled up on my couch right now at nearly one in the morning.
I had to get out of bed after a long tearful talk about life with Jimmy, because I needed to remind myself of something important.
And sometimes just getting it all out of my mind and into writing is the release I need to finally sleep peacefully.
I came across a website today, and it was a tough reality to see. It was full of people having hurtful opinions about people they don’t even know. Thoughts and assumptions and plain old mean cuts and comments. I know some of these people they were picking on, and they’re sweet and genuine and what they do what is right for them. And now there’s doubt and hurt in their heart, I’m sure. I know, because I’ve been there. I’ve been on the receiving end of these kinds of websites and it broke. my. heart. to see such evil.
Because tearing someone apart is just that.
I get that as bloggers, as people who are living out loud, we are choosing to be exposed to that side of the world.
What I don’t get is why people even care? And care enough to create a forum about it.
And not care enough to consider that the name they’re throwing around is actually a real person outside of the computer, with a real beating heart and feelings.
I love when others come to read what I write and they are able to relate and we connect.
But for me, (and I get that it’s not this way for everyone), that just can’t be what fuels my blog and my writing.
I can’t always write for the readers.
I can’t always write for the advertisers.
I can’t always write for subscriptions or to gain popularity.
I have to write for me.
I may not fit a genre.
I may not fit a mold.
There may not be a niche I settle neatly into.
And I see people unsubscribing because there’s too much of this or not enough of that, and that’s OKAY.
I even wish them the best and thank them for the time they gave me.
But when I wrote my first story at 5 years old, it was because there was a story in me to tell, and not because I had an audience to please.
Yes, my heart soared when I’d read my stories to others and they’d smile or laugh or seem proud. But even without all that, I knew even at that young age, that I HAD to write.
I loved it.
It was me and it was mine.
And nothing has changed 30 years later.
(I see you doing the math…)
I write because I have a story to tell.
And I choose to do it here, publicly, instead of a journal just in case someone else needs to read it for whatever reason that may be.
And because I remember the MANY posts where someone wrote something so true, or touching, or funny, or inspiring and I felt such joy, relief, and gratitude that they wrote out loud.
I admire the bravery of writers, all possible narcissism we may struggle with aside. (ha.)
Because the truth is, it’s safer in a journal.
In a journal there’s no judgement, there’s no chance of being picked apart in a public forum, no opportunity for rejection.
Out loud, it’s scary.
But we have a story to tell.
And we can’t let fear take away what God has put in our hearts to do.