I deleted my other blog. Completely. All the posts dating back to 2011 are gone.
I do this a lot. This, I do believe is the third time I have fully deleted my blog on this site. I do have another blog. But I have had one on this site for many years.
Why do I do it?
Aggravation. Irritation. Inflammation. Probably not the third.
I go to this site daily. Stare at the main screen, and sometimes will pull up a blank blog. And I will think about writing, anything. But nothing gets wrote. It stays a white screen. Eventually I close the browser and go back to whatever it was that I was doing before.
Deleted. Meaning I have no followers anymore. All 13 people will no longer see my blog posts. My randomly paced, promises of more blogs, not seen. Gone. Maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe I forgot what it means to write. Maybe I’m writing for all of the wrong reasons. Everything I write I write in hopes that someone will read it. Someone important. Someone will see it and think “gosh, I must find this girl.” But nothing. I don’t get that! It’s not surprising. Not many people read what I write.
But that’s okay!
Everyone starts at the bottom. I am not sure why I ever thought something would come of anything. I like to write. People do a lot of things they love to do and not expect anything to come of it. One day – if I’m mean to – I’ll do something with my writing. Until then, I really need to focus. Focus on what it means to write. The joys I get out of it. Go back to writing for myself. Stop writing for other people. Stop thinking that what others think matters.
Write for myself.
Seems simple enough, right? You’d think it was. For me, however, I want to make people happy. Especially with my writing. I’m not exactly saying that I want to write the next Great American Novel. I don’t want awards and I don’t want money. I just want someone to read what I write and think “that’s what I needed to read.” Be able to hold a book, with my name on the front, and tell people just how well it was written. How much the book, the words, the story felt real to them. Now, it’s all the can think about.
But – that’s not writing for me. That’s writing for other people. I have to start writing for myself. Me.
Why is doing anything for yourself so hard? Every time I try and do anything for me. Just me. It always seems to backfire and it ends up being for someone else. Weight loss. It began for me. Then crept into something for other people. I’m not even sure what people it’s for. Writing my novel. It began for me. Me. Through the chapters it has became something else. Something completely off of what I wanted. I wanted to finish it. Get it published. So I can finally prove to people that I can and will accomplish something. But why should I care what people think of me? What I do or don’t accomplish?
I don’t write daily. I should. But with the novel hovering over my shoulders and so many people who “want to read it” it became something I began dreading. I always use the same excuse, “I will get it finished. I’m just in a rut.” I’m not in a rut. I no longer enjoy doing it. When you begin to dislike something you’ll never finish anything. I have so many unfinished pieces of writings, that it is overwhelming. Questions weighing on me. The same ones: “When will I finish just one?” “Am I in over my head with this book?” “Should I stop writing on it and write something else?” “If I stop now, will I ever pick it back up?” “Should I give up writing all together?”
Why not give up writing? I give up everything the moment it begins to get hard. The moment something seems out of reach, I quit. Walk away. Never look back. I have done this all my life. High school. Jobs. College. Nearly done it with the job I have right now. But I stuck it out. It got better. But when will the ability to write get better.
If I have to try this hard to write – doesn’t that mean I am not meant to do it?
But if I’m not meant to write. What am I meant to do? What is my purpose if not to write? I don’t