It's been a while since my introductory post. Two posts in and I'm already behind on my own schedule. And I think there's a good reason for that. I don't think my purpose in this has really been defined or refined just yet. So, I'll do that here and you can join me.
I'll start by describing why I thought of blogging to begin with; my relationship with my partner was practically built on it.
I met my partner during a strange time for both of us. We met on a dating app while she was stopping in my city on a streak of international travel. She was very up-front and honest about how she preferred non-committed, open relationships and that she'd be leaving the country for the foreseeable future in two months. I usually play things fairly safe when it comes to who I get involved with. Casual relationships exhaust me and I keep a (perhaps overly) practical lens on serious relationships. Is it something that will last? Have I seen enough glimpses of authenticity to know them, just a bit? Do we have similar interests? If I can't answer those in a way that's optimistic, I usually just pass. I let indifference settle in and the interest fades.
She failed every single practical test and I still wanted to know her and be with her. We were together constantly for a month, and then she left. That short month was one of the most emotionally relevant experiences of my life. I had so many questions about myself, about why such a brief event left such an impact, why I was so willing to abandon the thought process I'd been so sure of, and whether I was just as impactful to her, or if I was just a visit in her travels. So, I wrote in hopes of answering them.
It was just a private tumblr blog with a password that was never shared. I just explored my thoughts in writing, because that works for me. And I learned a lot. So many insights about that month and myself just came into focus through writing. It became an important part of how I explore my thoughts and commune with myself.
Eventually, I decided that the things that I'd written are things that I'd have liked to share with her while we were together. So I sent her a link and a password with a short message. I didn't have any way of knowing if she'd visit it, and she'd left the message read and unreplied to for some time. I meant it as a fond farewell to a brief but memorable experience. She took it as an invitation to explore a vulnerability that was new to both of us, and that was the beginning of the relationship.
She always told me that the writing itself was beautiful, and that I should do it more. And one day in December, I took her advice literally and began this. Being introspective and letting others have a seat on the sidelines is something that I've come to enjoy, and if I open that invitation to relative strangers on the internet, maybe I can continue that process with a wider lens.
So, that's part of it. That's probably what got me here in the first place.
But I also think this is the first step in an exercise in creative confidence. I've always valued expression for expression's sake; as something that's inherently valuable regardless of outcome or reception. Writing something, painting something, dancing, conversing, is all valuable, even if nobody else ever sees or hears it, because the act of creating something and building something is nourishing to the closest thing we have to a soul. But, I've always struggled to do that in practice, because I apply a critical eye to art, and I care a bit too much about what people think of me, and I feel like a liar when I think of calling myself a writer that doesn't actually write.
So, part of me has always wanted to write and always wanted to call myself a writer; I've just found so many ways to deny that self-identifier on the basis of what the world considers to be a proper "writer". Someone that writes frequently, or someone that's published, or someone that writes as a vocation and profession.
But lately, I've been exposed to the idea of seizing that title anyway. Stephen King is a writer because he cranks out incredible novels and finds fame and fortune with them. Shakespeare is a writer because he invented remarkable things with the English language and wrote stories that storytellers of all kinds have drawn inspiration from for centuries. I write a gushy blog, sometimes, that can hardly be called consistent work, and will be forgotten by all but several, and that makes me just as entitled to call myself a writer as those other guys. I can call myself a writer because I write to express myself, and I don't need any more justification than that.
I don't believe that deep-down yet, but something about it rings true. Something about it is empowering. And I'd like to encourage that side of me instead of stifling it.
I think that's as good of an explanation as any. I'm writing this for me. I'm writing this for my own well-being, for my own creative validation, and my own introspection. But, I guess you could say I'm editing this for you. I want to practice as a writer, and part of that means tending to an audience, resisting weaknesses and bad habits, learning to hold myself to a schedule, and striving to be concise and understandable.
So, I'd like to think of this as something in between those extremes. We'll see how it turns out. But that's what I'm striving for. I hope I don't let anyone down, including myself.