It’s been just over two years since I started this blog and sometimes I start to feel a little claustrophobic about how it’s turned out. (Not going private, never fear. I would rather eat my own finger).
At first, I planned to write only book reviews and that was all well and good for around five whole posts after which I gave that notion up so I could write other pointless things like how I really loved Texas (have I mentioned that I really love Texas? Oh good).
And then, slowly, the book reviews fell by the wayside because they were easily my least popular posts and also, well, that would mean admitting that, yes, 90% of my reading is young adult and children’s books.
Eventually, I decided I didn’t actually care that all I read was aimed at people five to fifteen years younger than me, and I revived the reviews; their popularity has grown, at least slightly. I now manage to get at least a few comments on most of them (if you don’t read them, no worries. Bart doesn’t either (of course, he has the excuse that I make him listen to a page by page explanation WHILE I’m reading it)).
I write less and less about my day-to-day goings on because I fear they’ll be boring (“today I went to the grocery store. I was happy that eggs were $1.19 a dozen, since last week they were $1.26. Milk still costs the same”).
Whenever I write about The Way Things Were – how my parents dealt with Santa Claus or ear piercing or first kisses, I get a flood of response, some saying “awesome” and others being like “you are clearly destined for a sad soul-less life as a non-Santa believer.”
I don’t want to write just about books, and my childhood was not weird enough to generate post after post. And so I continue to silently freak out about what to talk about, and I write paragraphs about this party we went to over the weekend and how we stayed late trying to pick up plastic cups on the floor with our teeth while balancing on one leg and how I never ever would have been the kind of person to do those potentially-humiliating things as a teenager and now, married to a person far more social than I am, I find myself enjoying these kinds of things and being surprised that the mental narration has turned off and I can go about doing crazy things without feeling stupid. And then I declare it too boring, delete it all, and tear my hair out.
What in the world am I trying to write about here anyway? What fits and what doesn’t? What does anyone even want to read?
In the interest of full-disclosure, this identity crisis is brought on by the fact that I bought a new swimsuit this week and I feel dumb posting a picture of it (and then rambling on about how it was 80% off).
Everyday Reading: Creating a crisis (and a lengthy post) out of absolutely everything.