I was born on 11 January 2013. I am two months old today, that is Me, the writer. This day coincides with the day I published my first post on this blog. (40 posts ago) I am still an infant blogger. I drink milk, (prefer beer and wine) but I learn something new every day, therefore I’m growing. It’s great.
When I started on this journey, I knew that it was something I wanted to do for a very long time but I didn’t realise how addictive it would become.
WordPress lists some tips on blogging in numerous articles, and one of the tips was to post regularly. (And keep the content good, and don’t get lazy). One article suggested that I should find a posting schedule that I am comfortable with. It started as one post a week, grew to two, but it became very clear, very soon that I needed to post once a day, every weekday. (I have mentioned before that weekends were invented for doing nothing.)
In a very short period of time WordPress was listed by Google as one of my most frequently visited websites. Forgotten children like Rotten tomatoes, Facebook and Superherohype were pushed aside, packed away in dark corners. Calling my name, calling for attention, but useless calls nonetheless.
I don’t know any crackheads, yet, but I do know that (1) I get very agitated when I don’t have Internet access, (2) I constantly think of what to write, (3) How to write and (4) When I will get the opportunity to write. I verify my following daily, check for comments like a little kid who has never seen candy. I spend hours reading random stuff from total strangers as if my life depends on it. Is this normal? Is this was they call obsession?
My craving for posting daily has also created some concerns for my wife. She reckons I spend too much time in front of the computer when I am at home. Am I really becoming that guy? (Writer is smiling) I could reply with “Well, be grateful it’s not porn!” but I know better.
My wife has also asked me how do I come up with something to write about every day?
That’s an easy one. Finding topics to write about is about as difficult as finding oxygen. “It happens”, like Forrest Gump said. It’s just shit on the shoe and then we write. I say “we” with the utmost respect to all the great writers out there in the blogosphere. I am fortunate to be part of this amazing community of writers.
I write about specific things that happen, inspirational stories or anecdotes I pick up daily. I prefer to keep it personal, to tell stories that I have been a witness to. Stories I want my kids to read. My gratification does not come from the topic I choose, it comes from the act of writing, the process. Putting thoughts on-screen, wrestling with words, contemplating new titles, fighting with paragraphs. Like an artist trying to mix the perfect colour on his pallet for his next genius stroke.
Life is a toyshop of tales and experiences. It is a never-ending story that only needs willing people to observe and report on it. Writing has become such an integral part of my daily activity, that it’s difficult to imagine a time in my life without doing it.
Today I look at life differently, I am more cautious with my opinions, I observe more, I consider more, I listen more, I see more, I think more, I am more connected. It’s a kind of freedom that is very difficult to explain. A freedom of expression, freedom of stress, freedom of worries, freedom of being alive in a way.
Maybe En Vogue (the girl group, generation Y!) expressed it best in the title of their nineties hit:
“Free your mind” because that is what writing does. The ability to write is the big copper key that turns the heavy lock, swings the steel door wide open and allows your mind to escape.