I have had a lot of blogs before. I won’t even bother counting. I know I ‘ve had a lot. Blogger, LiveJournal, Tumblr, WordPress. Different usernames and email addresses. Each and every time, they were left abandoned.
I left behind for the more instant media like facebook or twitter, where updates are short and concise, and sometimes you only need to share or retweet, not write your own entries. I suppose that is partly why my Tumblr flourished for so long. Fueled by the many fandoms residing in it, I can just scroll past gifsets and fanarts and quotes and trailers and random comments, clicking like and reblog and queue. Instant happiness, constant stream of updates.
But my original content on Tumblr, just like my original content in my every other blogs, suffered. Each and every time, I grew weary of typing down my thoughts and sorting them into paragraphs. I stowed them away if they are not one hundred and forty characters or less. Sometimes I could be bursting full of feelings and I need to type them down. So I sat (or lay) down, fingers poised over the keyboard. I typed down a few snappy sentences…
…and I stopped.
I reread the words I wrote. Erased sentences I didn’t want to project to the whole world. Tried too hard to show how clever I could be with my blog entries, and so everything that was not smart or funny or heartrending simply had to go.
Over time, the entries got shorter. The updates, less frequent.
In one point in time, I just… stopped updating.
And after a while, the cycle started anew.
Until (hopefully) now.
I mean, I never intentionally sabotage my blogs or anything. It’s just usually I am too self-conscious about what I write and post, be it fictional or not. But most of these blogs started from the same starting point: I want to write, and I want to be good at it. What I failed to realize is that I will not, by trying too hard to censor my own writing, be any better at it. The one thing all authors seem to agree upon when it comes to “tips to be better writers” is that you have to always write. Always try, every day, write something. By censoring myself because I fear my own state of shittiness, I end up very unproductive. I did not realize that if I do not produce anything, I will never transcend beyond my current skill.
So now I’m going to try, really try, because hell, a girl’s gotta start somewhere. I will be honest: I like writing fictions better. I cry and laugh over the ups and downs of characters in stories. I fangirl. I fall in and out of love with fictional characters. Naturally, I want to create my own stories, write about my handcrafted, wicked, abominable villains. But if I can’t even properly sort out my own thoughts, how am I going to write about the tragic struggles of my (supposedly) complex and many-faceted heroine? No wonder none of my NaNoWriMo efforts has succeeded, I can’t even sit still long enough to explain how I feel today.
So there. My very roundabout exposition on why I made this. I made this to be the dumpster for my writing on my life, on other people’s life (maybe), and on some fictional creatures’ adventures.
Maybe, just maybe, if I keep at it I will actually write something poignant and beautiful that can move people and make them cry. But until then, I suppose I will just have to keep at it.