NaBloPoMo Day 21: Not Really Saying Anything At All

I have really been struggling the last couple of days. For one thing, I'm in a bit of a funk. Tuesday, during our staff meeting, when the CEO asked me what I was thankful for, I managed to squeak out "I'm just thankful," without bursting into totally inexplicable tears. I think it's all the change lately, all the fucking change with which I am just no good at all and never have been. I will adjust, and I will almost certainly be fine, but I am just a disaster this week, a much too emotional pile of raw nerves and over-sensitivity and general dysfunction. Please bear with me.

Also, Eden over at Fussy put it this way:

"Posting this much has forced me to admit to myself that I put things up on
this site so that I can hold them away from myself and admire them, and it takes
a tremendous ego to invite you to admire them, too, whether it's some little
truth I've realized, or another web site I've found, or a picture of my dog, or
for heaven's sake I try to sell you a t-shirt.

The crushing weight of this realization has humbled me to the point where
I'd certainly like to erase this whole sordid mess and that, of course, is the
point one reaches in any creative endeavor, when your homemade little boat is
becalmed in the middle of an ancient sea, the shore is days (years/a lifetime)
away, you're out of good snacks and nothing fun's on TV so why not just lie down
quietly and wait for your whole personality to disintegrate.

But instead? You post until you find something to say, you write your way
out of your personal abyss, or you knit one more row or run one more mile,
whatever it is you love doing so much that sometimes you hate it."

Oh my goodness, yes. You've hit the nail right on the head, Eden, beacause I am just so unimpressed with all of the vanity and froth that I've posted over the last three weeks. I've been concentrating so hard on putting something, anything, on this website, that I have really given little thought to what it was that I was posting, and I am really disappointed in myself.

I had a dream when I was in college that I was a writer and I woke up and realized that all of my boring posturing when it came to other pursuits were really just so much screwing around for no real purpose whatsoever, and I decided that whatever else I did with my life, it would always involve me writing somehow, because it was at the core of me somehow, the language I was fluent in. I write for a living now, boring things that I trained for like media releases and articles on debt and credit and foreclosure and grant proposals. I love my job and I am really becoming excellent at it, but it doesn't satisfy this itch, this bug to create something more interesting than most of what else I read on a daily basis. And so, I do this.

I have a collection of bloggers, most of whom are women and all of whom are brilliant, that I read regularly, and because they are just so good and are publishing some of the smartest, funniest, most remarkable writing I have seen in a long time. People say that blogging makes tripe widely accessable, and in a lot of cases that is true. But if you think that's the only product of blogging, I defy you to find anything more lovely and tender than this. I defy you to not let this move you, to ever forget what these people saw and experienced and are living through. I defy you not to laugh out loud at this, and lots of what else she's written, and find yourself coming back every day to read about the Science Babies.

There is great writing on the internet. There really is. I am disappointed in my contribution to it lately, but don't stop reading, because there is genius out there and it can move you and make you laugh and make you think about it long after you turned off the computer. It can make you feel like you know someone you've never met, and it can make you cross your fingers for them or sit in your office and cry or laugh out loud until you cry.

I am a better writer because I read blogs. I am a better writer than the uninteresting drivel I've put up the last three weeks. I assure you that I am a better writer than this, and I apologize for letting you down, especially if you were here hoping I was going to be interesting or topical or pithy. I have no excuse for how bad I've been recently, but I pledge to you, internet, and to myself, to do better.

Here is another thing: I made two kinds of dip last night. One is crab-artichoke dip, and the other is clam dip with bacon and scallions. They are both delicious. Tonight: chipotle tartar sauce and cocktail sauce. I'm just really quite pleased with myself in that regard.