Confessions of a has-been blogger
I used to be good at this.
So good that I swear, my thoughts used to flow in blog format.
So good that I already knew how I would write about things even as they were unfolding.
So good that if I want to know exactly what I was doing and what I was thinking on this day in 2003 or 2004 or 2005, all I need to do is go click-click-click. (And apparently, on this day in 2003, I was waiting to find out if I was finally going to graduate from college; in 2004, I shopped, cried while watching Oprah and then went to the office and in 2005, I finally signed up for a Gmail account which I continue to use today.)
So good that if I was feeling bad, all I had to do was blog and like magic, I’d feel better.
So good that when I look at my old blog, I always go, “How the hell did I do that?”
So good that a girl actually tried to steal my posts and experiences to pass them off as her own.
So good that I was able to convince myself that all my little thoughts mattered. And that people cared.
And people did care. It took me years before I turned on my blog’s comment function but it didn’t matter. People reached out. I got e-mails, I got sweet little packages, people stopped me in malls and parties, asking if I was that girl who blogs.
Once, I was about to interview a powerful executive but he said, wait a minute, I need to text my daughter. My daughter reads your blog. And it kind of freaked me out then but now I realize, hey, that was so fucking awesome.
Back then, I took all those things for granted. But not anymore.
My second attempt at blogging has been much harder than the first. Probably because I’m overthinking this.
I spend too much time thinking and not enough time blogging.
I used to just write and write and write and I used to have so much fun.
I want that.
So here is where the thinking stops. Now, the writing begins.