Blogging is many things to me. It is a live journal, a way to sort out my thoughts, a creative outlet, an opportunity to share, and a challenge. Challenging for several reasons, some of them quite obvious, some lurking just below the surface.
I have many random ideas floating around in this jumbled, sporadic, ever-churning brain of mine. I would say at least 90% of them don’t make it to print. Some are better left tucked away in the caverns of my mind, but some would make great blog posts. Of course, that requires A) that I remember the train of thought long enough to document it, else it’ll easily get swallowed by some equally riveting idea swimming around up there, and then B) that I take the time to pamper it into a finished product. Once the idea is captured, I then have to begin fleshing it out. Kneading the dough, if you will. Examining it from different angles, deciding where I want to take it. What do I want my readers to leave with? How do I want them to feel? Once I’ve churned out a basic draft, I reread ad nauseum, adding a bit here, nipping a bit there, until I’ve fashioned something worthy of being taken public (worthy being a very subjective term here). Only after deliberate labor do you get the finely tuned finished post I’ve chosen to share with the world
But that’s only half of it, and frankly, that’s the easy part. I love the writing process, so that part comes naturally. Which is why I relate so well to Ernest Hemingway’s statement:
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
The other thing you have to worry about is content. And audience. And whether that content will offend said audience. My life doesn’t involve just me, and praise Jesus for that, because that would be a painfully lonely existence. There are stories worth telling, but I’m not the only character; there are other personalities to protect. Maybe they don’t want their story told. Or maybe somebody doesn’t appreciate my opinion on a particular topic. Or, on the rare occasion, I’ve had a reader disgruntled with what I’ve written even if it has nothing to do with them. Where do you draw the line? How much do you hold back at the risk of salvaging others feelings, versus how much do you willingly share in an act of personal vulnerability? There’s no solid answer, and therein lies the complication of it all.
And don’t even get me started on the time factor, because we all know I struggle in that department.
And then there’s this handy piece of guidance, which reminds me not to take any of it too seriously, anyway:
Mel Tales 