A couple of months ago, I decided to take a break from blogging (you can read about that here). I thought that by taking a break, I’d be able to get my bearings, reset, and continue with this little space of mine. You know what’s happened, though?
The exact opposite.
The more time I spend away from blogging, the more I realize the true source of my break was the simple fact that I just don’t know what to talk about anymore. I’m not that interesting. I don’t have any sage advice on life or careers or food or fashion or weight loss or whatever it is the kids these days are writing about. I don’t have any passion projects that require discussion. I won’t write a mommy blog because my daughter’s stories are not mine to tell. I don’t even think I’m that great of a parent (not even kidding, we did a science experiment last week and I convinced her to test the ph of whiskey. Who does that?) so a parenting blog is out. I’ve stopped trying to offer any sort of coaching or freelance writing so there’s no self-promotion to fill up some posts. My life is boring as hell (need evidence? Check out my Instagram) and not at all fodder for content. Sure, I have opinions on books and politics and TV shows and current events but does anyone really give a fuck?
Most likely not. So I keep them to myself. It also does not help that the more I ruminate on this, the more I realize I’m a pretty fucking private person. I’m not one to share my goals and plans. I mean, I’ve done it and we can talk about all the reasons I’ve failed which might actually be something semi-decent to write about, but it’s not in my nature to have a whole series devoted to my weight loss or how I’m working on being more productive. I generally keep that bottled up because while I love hearing about that from others, in my head, I feel like I’m burdening or annoying people with my words on that stuff.
There’s also this. I have had some rather unpleasant things happen to me over the last 5 years. I’ve talked about them (you can check out the mental health archive for all of those posts) both for catharsis and for the sake of others going through them so that they know they’re not alone. But I simply cannot define myself by the bad shit. I cannot immerse myself, day in and day out, with those events. For some people it is healing; for me it is not. When I was a PO, I told my clients that what they’ve done is not necessarily a reflection of who they are. I feel the same way for me. And I can’t run a depression blog or an infertility blog without compromising my quality of life. So I’m not going to do that.
The result is a blog that’s a mess that lacks focus and purpose. The lack of focus makes it difficult for me to come up with topics and content that are even a basic version of entertaining, never mind engaging or helpful. But I love writing. It makes me feel alive and creative and turns on my brain in ways that is generally lacking in my life. It makes me feel put together on days I can’t even put my underwear on the right way (which actually happened. Making it worse? The fact that I didn’t notice until that evening, at a minor league baseball game, in a public bathroom stall). So not writing is not an option anymore.
But where to go from here? I want this to be a space that’s entertaining but also helpful. Because, at my core, in the places only awkward people like me talk about at parties, is an innate desire to be useful and helpful. I need and want to feel like I’m writing with a purpose.
I just don’t know what that purpose is yet.
So I guess this is my long-winded way of saying my blog is having a mid-life crisis. And I’d love it if you guys would stick around like a patient spouse while I get it all sorted out. It’s probably going to be a wild and twisted ride until we get there but we’ll get there.