One of my friends has recently started reading my blog - or at least has just let me know that he is...
At any rate, he made the comment to me that he liked reading it to "get inside your head... I can tell it's really good/therapeutic for you to write that stuff." Now, this made me a little squeamish, as I've written about what makes me sneeze or cry, compulsively buying home supplies, blueberry muffin weather, and most recently, making out with an apartment complex, none of which cater to the higher kinds of tastes that I should be aiming to satisfy.
I imagine Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Victor Hugo, C.S. Lewis, George MacDonald and countless other of my personal influencers and heroes sitting down at the old-fashioned blog of their day and spewing out wise sayings, witty, hilarious thoughts and jaw-dropping insights with a flick of their fountain pen. Was writing therapeutic for them?
I hate to admit it, but these silly ramblings are good for me. Blogging or writing something, no matter how dumb, is often the highlight of my day, and I wonder where this compulsion comes from.
I remember writing a "book" as a child about a cat. I think her name was Spotty, after the very creatively-titled white-and-orange-spotted feline who wandered into our lives just long enough to have kittens and wander out again. I don't remember anything about it, other than I was very proud of my illustration abilities and my title, which was... ...wait for it: "Cat Tails". I know. I kill me.
Anyway, my first attempt never got picked up by a publisher, Oprah never needed this child prodigy on her show, and I've sunk into a blissful oblivion, writing away whenever I feel the need and enjoying the relatively calm buzz of seeing your work online.
As much as I dream of being the next Bronte or Austen, these ramblings are OK with me for now. I hope that my heroes forgive me a little public therapy... ...and that you will too. Thanks again for listening.