I am a serial blogger.
Example: remember xanga?
Yeah, I had one of those. And I updated it–religiously, created my own themes with html and java script, and thought I was a rockstar. I mean, people I didn’t even know commented on it — that must have meant I was good, right? You can still see it, actually, because I ignored every warning from my parents, who so fearfully reminded me (often) that “once it’s out on the internet, you can never take it back.” I never thought I’d be grateful to say that they were right — I was 15 when I stopped posting, and I still learn a lot from reading my somewhat angsty, somewhat witty, and somewhat intelligent posts.
After my long and memorable love affair with xanga, I left the bloggosphere for a little while and tried to pick up journaling. Like, pen on paper journaling. Which kept me occupied for a little while, but the half-dozen or so unfinished journals on my bookshelves remind me that I have a little problem committing to my own thoughts. I get bored with journals easily; so easily, in fact, that it actually physically pains me to admit that I have a gorgeous leather-bound journal my parents bought me in Italy that I thought I would journal in about my exchange program in France, only to have written in it MAYBE 14 times…and not about my trip at all. Nope, it was about my fleeting crushes, first on a boy at home which evolved into a full-blown summer crush on one of my co-exchange students.
Then, when I graduated from High School and went to Temple University in Philadelphia, I thought I’d try my hand at some of this so-called real writing stuff you only read about and declared an English major. Once I realized that there was no real writing whatsoever involved with an English degree, I demoted the anglo language (and all of the white, male, boring writers devoted to it) to a minor and declared Jewish Studies instead. The only bit of real writing I actually got to do in college was for a project in my Poetry as Performance class, where the final project was to build a manuscript of poetry, which inspired this blog title. The now tattered and marked-up manuscript is wasting space on my bookshelf in my office, and I’ve only recently started thinking about updating it to publish.
While I was in college, I reminisced about my xanga while at a crappy summer job at a publishing house, and remembering how liberating I remembered blogging to be, I decided to start a blog again, but this time, to do it right. I would buy the domain name, create my own custom theme, and make money from my brilliant, pithy musings about life, relationships, ice cream, and my love of shoes. (I’m recognizing a pattern.)
The blog, www.indulgentgirl.com, no longer exists, because I stopped paying for the domain name, much to my despair. I had some really beautiful memories stored on that money sucking machine (oh right, remember my money-making plan? It Failed), and was proud of the results.
Which brings me to now. I’ve decided, to once again take a risk in the blogging world, but this time, with no strings attached. I’m not paying for a domain yet, but not writing off the possibility all together, either. This blog, I’m hoping, differs from the previous two (and all of my unfinished journals) because I’m ready for a little more commitment in my life (see, recently married), but because I really have nothing to lose with this one and everything to gain (including memories permanantly penned (or typed) in ink on the interweb), there’s no pressure to keep it going if the inspiration is fleeting.
So, like I said: I’m a serial blogger, but really, it’s more than that. I’m a serial writer, suffering from a terrible case of writer’s block and trying to ink out my thoughts as fast as they evolve.
Bear with me as I try to recover.