why I blog

The past couple of months I have really began thinking more about this little blog. 

For a year or so now, I have been regularly reading several blogs of people I don't even know (I'm aware of my own nerdiness). I would somehow find a link to their blog somewhere, read a few posts, and enjoy them. This would get me to come back to some of them daily. I read a lot of funny blogs, because I like to laugh. I read blogs by published authors. I read several blogs that are written by people similar to myself--women in their twenties or thirties, single, just trying to figure out why God put them here and what He wants them to do about it. Most, if not all, of the blogs I read are wonderfully written. As I began to read more and more of what these complete strangers were writing, I began to write more on my own blog. While all the blogs I read of people I don't know have hundreds of readers, if not more, my little blog here has mostly family and friends. (I love that y'all read the blog!) I decided I wanted more readers. I read a few articles on how to make this happen--a few of the tips ended up in my To Do in 2011 list. Then, I really started thinking about what I was trying to accomplish. Why do I blog and why do I want more readers?

It seemed pretty narcissistic to me. 

Then I thought about it more--which began as an attempt to justify my actions, I admit--and I realized that there are a few reasons I blog:

1) I am a writer.

You know how sometimes people say art or music is healing or clarifying or relaxing? Writing is my art; writing is my music. I can't really paint or draw and I definitely can't sing or dance. I write as a means to process things, to express things, to share things. Quite simply, I can't function well without writing. It sounds dramatic, but it is true.

A blog is simply an outlet for this.

2) I want to be a writer.

Like anything, writing gets better with practice. Blogging is excellent practice.

Also, I would like to be published (in print) at some point--to become a "real" writer (if such a thing exists). Saying "hundreds of people already read my writing every week" is probably a better selling point to a potential publisher than "25 of my closest friends and family read my writing whenever I decide to post something."

Perhaps these reasons are still pretty narcissistic. I think, at least to some extent, most art is. The thing is, though, I hope to glorify God in everything I do, not the least of which is writing (in a blog, in a book, in my prayer journal, in an email). I also want to help others glorify Him. Most of what I write (here and everywhere) may not be particularly helpful or what you might consider traditionally worshipful, but my hope is that it is, at least, encouraging. I have read many a blog post (from humor writers, from people-like-me writers, from "real" writers) that have made me think, laugh, or even cry. Some are good for a little laugh, a smile in my day. Some let me know I'm not alone. Some challenge even my personal belief system (in a good way). My hope is that my blog does those things for my readers, or will do those things--at least one of them!

That is why I blog.

something I wrote (and a couple more paragraphs because I'm avoiding my homework)

I wrote this about kids and the plan of salvation. It was internet-published today. Which, kind of, a little, makes up for the lack of posting on here, right?

Also, I have mid-terms this week, not procrastinating on such matters is a struggle for me. I mean, why stop something that I'm so great at doing? Therefore, I have been doing very little other than watching lectures and reading--oh, so much reading!

I must say, though, I am kind of proud of myself that this is my first blog post all week. Oftentimes, when I am faced with much to do, I somehow feel the need to be creative and write.

Okay, back to the books.

Poetry Class

By the second week, we had separated ourselves. Those who wanted to be poets sat at the end of the table closest to our professor. The rest of us congregated at the other end. Don’t get me wrong, I was a poet--a doodle poet. My poems were written like doodles--when I was bored, mostly--in class, in church, in lectures. I did not desire to become a better poet.

The class was to be a workshop and those sitting closest to the professor feigned horrification while they secretly could not wait to begin displaying their talent to the creative geniuses they believed the rest of us to be. Those of us at the other end of the table were either seriously horrified, or apathetic. The apathy was directly related to how many workshop classes we had been in before, as well as how much we valued the other opinions in the room. The latter, for this end of the table, did not equal much. Each week, we would come in and read the poems our professor had selected from those we had written the week before. I both hoped and dreaded that my poem would be in those selected. I hoped it would be, because that meant I had done at least something right, and despite the fact that I did not want to be a poet, I wanted to do something right. I dreaded having my poem on the worksheet because that meant it was about to be torn apart by my peers and professor. The author of the poem was required to sit and take criticism without explanation, because, my professor said, when people read your poetry, you are usually not there to explain why you used those words.

The first week, we were to write a poem about a moment in time (or something like that). I wrote my poem and actually put some effort into it, since this was the first of the semester and I generally do put more effort into assignments when nothing else is going on. I knew my poem wasn’t good, but I thought I had done an okay job of expressing the moment. At the very least, I thought readers would get the general idea. My poem made it to the worksheet.

The class had no clue what the poem was about. At first, the professor opened up the floor for saying good things. There was silence for a while. Finally, somebody mentioned some minute thing that I had managed to accomplish on accident. Then the professor opened up the floor for saying “what needs work” in my poem. There was an explosion from one of the girls near the professor: “Adjectives! It needs adjectives!” she cried, carefully pronouncing each consonant, including the “c.” It was as if she were trying to give my poem mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I wanted to yell at her that it was still breathing.

By the time they had finished, I wanted to cry. Not that I cared.

Poetry classes, well, writing classes in general, usually lend themselves to a certain group of people. There are writers, wannabes, and those just trying to get a degree. Let’s start with the writer. At the end of the table closest to the professor, was his prodigy. He looked like a poet, with his skinny jeans, flannel shirts, and scraggly hair. He read every poem with a slow, scratchy voice that made anything sound deep and artistic. We liked when he was chosen to read our poems out loud. His poems usually lasted for an entire page, with lines spanning the whole eight-and-a-half inches of the page horizontally and he would use words that even the professor had to look up to understand. One day, he came in and told us that his poem on the worksheet had no meaning. He had literally just written some words down on a page. We still debated for 30 minutes about what the poem meant. He just sat, smiling, like he had just played a trick on all of us. I put in my opinion to get a good participation grade, and then sat back, thinking alternately about the genius of writing a poem about nothing that begs to be interpreted and the idiocy of discussing for 30 minutes what the author had already admitted was nothing.

The BFFs hovered between wannabe and writer status. They sat on the other side of the professor. One of them would write poems involving French, Latin, and made up words. I never knew what any of her poems were really about, but the professor loved them and she was published before the semester ended. The other friend wrote some of my favorite poems that semester. She loved adjectives, similes, and metaphors, and she loved poetry. The two of them would write their poems, then show each other for a pre-class critique, which I thought was unfair to the rest of us. Not only would they correct what the other thought was bad before the rest of us saw it, but they would also explain the difficult parts to each other. Therefore, at least one person in the audience knew what the poem was about and that meant the poem was a success (maybe. What is a successful poem?).

Then there were the ones just trying to get a good grade: the girl who wrote country song poems (once, we debated for half the class time about whether country songs were art. The verdict is still out.) and, of course, a girl who wrote love poems.

And the guy who was really only trying to pass. He would come in late almost every week with only a pencil behind his ear—no backpack, no notebook, no textbooks. I appreciated his honest apathy toward the class, but at the same time wondered at his bravery. Several times, he came into class and complained, “Why can’t they have classes on something that can make us money, like song writing? Poetry doesn’t sell.” At this, the writers and wannabes would exchange glances that said, “This is art, not a job.”

After the first week, my poems began to get a little better. I researched things before writing about them and included more adjectives. I looked at Crayola’s website for about twenty minutes trying to determine the name of the exact color of the dirt I wanted to have in one poem. I also went back and rewrote the first poem, looking up statistics and bug species. I spent almost an hour looking at Google images before figuring out that a bug I had seen crawl across the floor of chapel was probably a boxelder bug. I can’t be sure, but neither can my professor, so it worked.

Toward the end of the semester, I was working on my undergraduate thesis and did not make time for poetry one week. So, I did a dangerous thing—I turned in a poem that I loved. It was kind of experimental, playing with double-meanings. The structure had been inspired by a pop song and the content by a cathedral. I had worked on it off and on for an entire summer and-- the most dangerous part--I thought it was good. It did not end up on the worksheet that week. I was both relieved and sad. A couple of weeks later, though, the poem turned up unexpectedly.

I got to class early that day and the best friends were reading my poem. “We were just talking about your poem, Elizabeth. We like it.” Relief rushed over me. If the best friends liked it, the poem stood a chance. Thankfully, surprisingly, the rest of the class agreed.

That day, I was proud to call myself a poet. Not that I cared.

pros and cons of reading stuff on the internet

I read a lot of stuff on the internet. I read blogs and articles and tweets, some on a daily basis.

This is good in some ways. I learn some things. I learn different opinions about some things. I learn new ways to think about some things. Also, a lot of the blogs/articles/tweets I read are funny. Laughing is good. A lot of the blogs/articles/tweets I read are inspiring, too. And challenging.

All this reading is not good in some ways. Because of all my reading, I have come to think that I have few original thoughts. Many, many times, I have read the exact thing that I have written about or wanted to write about. Only, I usually read writing by professionals (can you be a professional writer? I'm not sure; but that's a different blog post), and they say things better than I think I ever could. Then, I get sad about my writing. It will never be as funny/well-written/inspirational/popular as the others'. If I've already written it, mine seems cliche now. If it's still waiting to be written, it won't be, because it has already been said--only better.

Another thing I have a habit of doing is reading inspirational things, getting all inspired and ready to take on the world, and then doing nothing. I'm going to try to stop that. I have decided that this, my first summer in the real world, is a summer that I will really conquer some things. So here it goes. Feel free to hold me accountable.

Writing for Me

What if I wrote for an audience of me?

I was reading someone's blog, or an article, or a tweet recently talking about writing. They said that most writing teachers will tell you that you should know your audience, and write for them. But, and they quoted some author here, you should write for yourself. If you write things that you enjoy reading, chances are, someone else will enjoy reading it, too.

[an aside: I so wish that I could remember who said/wrote half the things I hear/read. I would sound about 93% more intelligent if I could only remember my sources.]

I agree partially with both sides of that argument (as with most arguments--I like being Switzerland).

More than writing for an audience, I think you should be aware of your audience. Obviously, if you are writing a children's book, you should be aware that children will read it and write appropriately. Awareness is a good thing.

However, I don't think you should write for your audience. The famous author that I didn't even attempt to quote above has a point. Take this blog, for example. I have become aware that I have a readership. It is an incredibly small readership, but there are those who read what I write. And I am a people-pleaser. Therefore, I have tried to write what is pleasing for my readers. It hasn't been horrible. But I've got to stop. It will be better for us all.

Halloween Candy, or When I Am Inspired

When I was little, I would save my Halloween candy. I would have a few pieces on Halloween night, and then maybe one a day the following week. After that, I would save it. I mean, I had a few pieces here and there, but most of the candy remained until the next Halloween. I was trying to be frugal. The problem with saving up Halloween candy is that eventually it goes bad. The chocolate turns kind of white-ish and the taffy and skittles get so stale you fear breaking a tooth while chewing them. The candy is wasted.

[There are probably a million and one kids' sermon illustrations that could use that story. I know, I worked camp, and could turn that little anecdote into the plan of salvation in no time. But, I'm not going to do that here. Feel free to use it if you need a good lead-in sometime.]

I tend to waste inspiration the same way. Sometimes, I feel as if I am overly inspired. I just have so many great things that could lead to amazing writing, but I don't want to write it all at once. I want to ration it out, like my Halloween candy. The problem is, like candy, inspiration eventually gets stale. It just isn't the same after a little while.

Lately, I've read a lot of great articles, interviews, and blogs, I've had some rich conversations with other dreamers, I've listened to music by artists who are, truly, artists, and even looked at some visual art. I know, soaking in the culture. The point is, after observing, or participating in, each of these art forms, I have been inspired to write. That's what I do. That's who I am. But have I written? Not really.

Well, this time, I am not going to let it go stale. I will be writing it down before the rich, chocolaty (Yeah, that's how you spell it. I looked it up.) parts turn old and...white-ish (I admit, that metaphor ran out before I wanted it to, but I'm leaving it).

I guess I just thought you should know that, since you read my writing. And I can't think of any way to end this post besides something cheesy like "Check back for the inspiring stuff" and I am not a fan of cheesiness.

Snarky

Snarky has become one of my favorite words to describe my writing style and my sense of humor and, I suppose, my general take on life. I don't think snarky is an actual word, because it has a dotted red line underneath it. Unless I spelled it wrong, but how else would you spell snarky?

Hang on, I'll look it up. Luckily, I have a dictionary on my dashboard....

Oo, it is a word. And, I spelled it correctly. But I don't know that I like the definition.

Onto dictionary.com...like a preacher searching for the version of the Bible they think drives their point home the best, I am searching for a version of a definition I like. Too bad I don't have an OED. I bet it has all the versions. One-stop shopping.

Anyway, it looks like I may have to start using a different word. "Snarky" means "irritable" and I hope I am not irritable. And this whole time I have been saying that. Man. I thought it meant dry, a little sarcastic, but definitely short of cynicism.

Oh, well.

What I was going to say is that sometimes I wait to add in the snarky (pretend for the rest of this post that snarky follows my definition). Meaning, I'll write something and it'll be stark. No parentheticals, no one-word sentences; I pretty much follow the rules. Then, I go in and add the snark. And the article goes from stark to snark! ha.

I do that sometimes. [Like in the article that I should be writing rightnow because it is due soon and I have somewhere to be at 6:30 a.m. Instead, I am writing about snark. You just can't reign the creative process.] Other times (see above), I stick it in as I go along.

And for that information, you are very welcome.