For about six months now—maybe more, maybe less; math has never been my strong suit—one of my closest friends has pestered me about getting a blog.
“Why don’t you have a blog?” she keeps working into messages and conversations. “I, for one, would read it!”
So here you go, my friend. You know who you are.
Blogging is something that has been on my radar for a while, but not something I’ve visited since the days of Xanga (anyone else have a blog there?) and MySpace. Since then I abandoned the pastime for a period of what I’ll call study, reading the words of others and admiring the wit and prose they put out onto the world wide web through blogging.
But I’ve caved. Here I am, once again back in the blogosphere, wondering if I actually have enough to say to pump out interesting entries. Then again, I’m a writing major, I’m supposed to have a lot to say.
A few years ago I ran across a quote by the fantastic writer and columnist Anna Quindlen: “I hate writing, but I love having written.” Oh, how one little sentence holds so much truth. For years I’ve been known as a writer within my family and circles of friends, and yes, it is my major course of study. I’m good at it—or so I’m told—and it’s what I’m comfortable doing. But in all honesty, I rarely sit down and write (although something I need to change and am doing so with this blog). And the reason lies within that very quote.
Writing is hard. Writing is messy, heartbreaking, frustrating, draining, boring, time-consuming, challenging. But writing is creative. It is thought-provoking. And it is rewarding. Incredibly, incredibly rewarding.
That’s where the “having written” part comes in. There’s nothing better than seeing something I wrote somewhere other than my laptop or a professor’s office or a friend’s Facebook page. My words and my name are capable of leaving my mind and going to someone I’ve never met, someone who can analyze those words, be entertained by them, escape in them.
And that, my friends, is why I call myself a writer. Welcome to my blog.