One year, or what writing means to me

Last Tuesday was my blog’s birthday. About a year ago, I started this WordPress primarily out of peer pressure. More specifically, I was bandwagon-ing on the blogging trend because my very talented friends had started blogs of their own. I initially expected some sort of friendly competition between us, but the idea of blog wars was tossed out promptly because our individual styles and processes were so very different.

I found that I was mostly a reflective writer, and my posts resembled transcripts of rickety trains of thought. I write in streams of consciousness, never quite sure where they will lead me.

I used this WordPress blog to make sense of the serious, important changes that were happening in my life. 90% of my posts originated from me thinking on paper and transcribing my thought process with minimal editing; the other 10% resulted from free writing in front of the glowing screen to sort out what I thought from what I felt, and finding where the two overlapped.

Incredibly, I have published 34 posts. My personal favorites/ the ones that mean a lot to me include the following:

People have been very supportive, giving me advice on how often I should update, commenting on my posts, pointing out the numerous typos, asking for clarification, suggesting possible future topics to write about. From time to time people would come up to me and say, “I read your blog” and nothing else, as if they were simply giving me a heads-up that they were aware of what I’ve been dwelling on, what’s happening in my life. The nicest people told me I inspired them to write and spend more time self-reflecting, or gave me genuine constructive criticism or content.

I say this often and I’ll say it again: I don’t consider myself a writer, or even a blogger. I don’t offer any fresh insight or critique on current events. I don’t have fiery opinions on controversial topics. I am not funny. I am not an artist or a poet. I do not claim to have found answers to universal questions. I am not really a storyteller, unless telling my own story in all my vanity counts. I don’t consider myself capable of riveting my audience with sheer ingenuity.

But then, who is my audience anyway? I would be lying if I claimed I was writing only for myself, but I’m not exactly parading my URL to the world and labeling myself at all a “blogger.” I can’t say I’m writing for my peers because since deactivating my Facebook account, only a small handful have cared to seek out what I’ve posted, because the rest of my friends wouldn’t know where to look if the link’s not dangling in their newsfeed.

No, I figure I’m in an empty room talking to the wall. I fantasize that people walking around on the other side can discern my muffled words and may or may not be curious to know what’s going on. And, if I’m lucky, someone will gently open the door to peek in, and ask what all the fuss is about.

A while ago when I was feeling particularly insecure , I had hastily posted this excerpt and just as promptly took it down.

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Generally I have the same mindset. The difference is that I think I care a lot less. The blog is a manifestation of an ongoing personal project to understand myself. And I think that is what writing has been to me all along.

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