Oh my. As I write the heater is out of fuel. My glasses are sitting right next to my sleeping daughter. I don’t dare get them for fear of losing these ten minutes. What else is there to do? At least I can make the words on my screen big.
This week as I was re-making the face of this blog, I couldn’t help think about the point of blogging. My husband reminded me what an ugly sounding word “blog” is, like a snot ball or other phlegm. I used to be put off by blogging; I considered blogs to be a reductive essay-diary. Some kind of less-than form. A kind of embarrassing form of self-publishing.
Now I’m more struck by how democratic blogging is. Anyone can publish their thoughts without a lot of money or any go-between. Of course this means there’s a lot of bad writing floating out there. So what. For a lot of folks writing isn’t even the point. People are taking the time document their lives and passions, and I can’t help but think the world is a better place when people attend to the things that make them happy.
But what brings me to this blog? For me writing is the point. Anything that engenders more writing in my life is good. I start writing a blog, I drift to a draft of a poem. It’s more productive than surfing the web. It’s good to have a weekly post, and to have the audacity to put out something that’s not perfect. I cringe sometimes when I go back and look at my over sights. But that’s okay, it’s out there, I can fix it, and it’s evidence of me engaging in a writing life.
My posts are an effort to log some of the places my mind has been drifting. And I’m okay with letting this blog evolve as need be. Having an hour in the morning to myself to read and write is ideal, but honestly it doesn’t happen as much as I wish. So I carve out moments here and there, and when I get that precious hour I take my notes and snippets and assimilate them, sometimes into a poem or essay or this blog.
I hear the summons of my 2 year old. Time to get my glasses now. Until next week.-Mercedes