‘Cause I try and I try and I try.
I think that I started a blog as a way to pacify my need to write, a way to quit without quitting.
It’s not working. I am not appeased.
Hey, hey, hey, that’s what I say.
Truth be told, blogging is making me crazy(er). Let me count the ways:
- I am not a prolific writer, by any means (maybe I would be if I didn’t have a non-writing-but-too-demanding job and three small children — or at least that’s what I tell myself), and blogging only emphasizes that. Aside from one week when I somehow managed to get two posts published, I have been posting only once a week. Did you know that there are bloggers who post EVERY day? And some that post MULTIPLE times in a SINGLE day? (The caps are warranted, I think.) Clearly, I don’t have enough to say.
- My day now involves checking my “stats.” The only other time in my life when I refer to my own “stats” is in July when I calculate my students’ passing rate on the AP Lit Exam. But now I refresh and refresh and refresh (though it’s really not refreshing). And I check the “Reader” ( to see how many posts those multiple-posters have posted this hour) and the Freshly Pressed (and wonder why that blog was Freshly Pressed) . . . I could go on and on. Let me.
- My inner editor (who has always been a nit-picker) is quickly becoming a critic. Really. She’s forcing me to revise the sentences I construct in casual emails to friends. Oh, and I just adore that QuickPress box: “Have you tried the quick post option?” In my world, there is no such thing as a “quick post.”
- I am suddenly reading things, all kinds of things, that I might not have read before. Whether that’s good or bad is yet to be determined. But when I read the posts that sort of resemble extended status updates, I have to wonder, who CARES what I have to say? Do I, even?
- I am suddenly doing things I would never normally do, like take pictures of myself (ugh). And that makes me feel so incredibly stupid that I grab my toddler to model with me (because he’s far more attractive than I am, anyway), which makes me feel only slightly less stupid.
- And I wonder, am I pigeonholing myself? (Can one, in fact, pigeonhole oneself?) If I write too many mommy posts, am I “mommy-blogger?” If I write too many teacher posts, am I a “teacher-blogger?” Have I jumped the shark and pigeonholed myself as a “blogger?”
- Oh, and then there are the things I really want to write about but I won’t because too many people who read this blog actually know me (Erin Lavelle, the person, not the Gravatar) and when I push that little blue “Publish” (ha!) button, I’m suddenly standing naked on stage in front of a bunch of people who will forever remember what I look like naked when I see them at the grocery store. And all of my teeth have fallen out. So I’m toothless and nude. And everyone knows it.
- Every event in my life has suddenly become a blog-worthy topic. I’m going camping in September. Oooooh, I could blog about it! I really love to drink beer. Oooooh, I could blog about it! I’m awkward around my daughter’s classmates’ mothers. Oooooh, I could blog about it! (Okay, I might actually do that one.)
And then there’s Libby, who stares at me with those dark eyes and almost straight-across bangs. She torments me. She’s probably standing with her hands on her narrow hips, tapping her foot. I annoy her the same way her mother does. She hasn’t aged, from what I can tell. But she’s growing tired of waiting. Because her story is there. I know it; I made it. But I haven’t written it.
Because I’ve been blogging.
In actuality, perhaps the blogosphere is a giant slushpile of submissions with no real rejection slips. And I am just one of the unsolicited.