I never wanted to be a blogger

Just hearing the word makes me cringe.  What an ugly sound it makes.  And so current.  Faddish.  So unlike me.  I opposed the idea for years; I’m not sure I’m totally on board even now.  I’m not into blogs.  There is one I peek at maybe once every four months, but really--who has time to read about what every passionate but amateur writer or stay-at-home mom is doing or thinking?  Blogs are a dime a dozen; and I hate the idea of adding one more thing to my friends’ already full to-do lists.  Divulging so much and having people condescendingly think to themselves, “Caren’s trying to find herself” makes me uneasy as well.

It’s obvious I have no idea what I’m doing.  I take awful photos, I don’t have any idea how to decorate these pages, and I just couldn’t care less.  (Although I’m completely impressed by the ones I stumble across while looking up a recipe—how do they make them so pretty? How much time do they spend on their computers anyway?)  I’m having a hard time putting my finger on what motivated me to do this except that I love to write.  It’s one of the first things I think about when I wake up.  It’s just effortless.  I’ve written my whole life: essays, journal entries, letters, opinion pieces, etc. but have no idea why, what good can a little love note here and there do anyway?

I confided to Todd, that lately I’ve felt I should take a step, venture out, see if there’s some way to use my passion to inspire or uplift people, but that I’m not convinced that’s happening.  So he wisely counseled me to think of it as a way to simply record family memories, that it could still be valuable if it was only for our little family (and my mom—since she’s the only one I know who reads it).   An organizational tool for my thoughts outside of my journal.  I can live with that.

In real life I don’t care so much what people think (unless I unintentionally hurt their feelings), but I do wonder if I’m just making a fool of myself thinking I can write something useful.  I have no idea who reads what I write or what anyone thinks.  I do wonder if I’m just wasting my time.  And yet, maybe we all feel like that as we learn to play the piano or paint or start a family or a book.  It’s scary to expose your inner self, thinking you might have something that can inspire someone.  But I’m so glad you do!  I love the varied gifts you all have: from your sense of humor and ability to landscape and garden to being a strong athlete, engaged parent or a fearless leader.  You inspire me!  You motivate me!  Because of you, I tentatively share my one gift with you.