I used to write a lot more. College was a happening time. I had a column for a year in one of the student daily newspapers, and later I wrote reviews and such for a music magazine. I had a purpose, and I had an audience. This doesn't even include the many papers I had to churn out for classes, which were often a source of pride as well. (Best moment: when my hot philosophy TA thought my paper on exploitation was so good that he wanted a copy of it, talk about academic swooning. And yes, I totally went to office hours just to see him.)
And in the past seven years or so, I don't think there's been a time where I haven't had some outlet on the internet for writing. Even this blog has been around for three years or so, though I think it took a year and a half or more to get used to the idea of telling people about it.
Still, I often wonder why it is exactly that I keep up with this thing. When everyone and their mom can have a blog, when adding to the internet pollution sometimes seems at its best, self-indulgent, why continue? I would say that I write this for me, but that can't be entirely true. I write far too self-consciously in this space for it to be purely for me. I am constantly aware of the dangers of blogging, of putting myself out there on the internet for anyone to find, and I think my writing often suffers as a result. I stick with the safe topics like food and crafts. Even with my safe topics, I don't feel as though I've found a niche, and I'm still unsure of who my audience is.
Wow, that's quite enough introspective rambling for now. This is mostly motivated by my friend Sarah, who called and informed that she really enjoys this blogging (mostly) everyday thing, which made me happy and also blew me away because I tend to forget that people read this. So, like...if you read this on a semi-regular basis but never comment or tell me in any other way, I would totally love to know.