I like to write with a clear idea, a strong voice and a consistent tone. I hope I’m engaging, and I hope that when I read back over my posts, I am happy with what I’ve written.
I always draft my posts in Word, allowing for edits and re-reads and more edits. That a post may include a typo – or worse, an honest-to-goodness grammatical mistake – is enough to instill panic.
When I began this blog (well, when I started my previous blog), it wasn’t only to document my experiences as a new mother. It was to award myself the opportunity to write the editorial, lifestyle pieces I always dreamed of writing in a magazine column, should anyone ever offer me a magazine column to write. I wanted to have presence as a writer, and I wanted my readers to mostly know what to expect when they swung by.
It’s been almost 4 years now, and I like what my blog has become. I’m no super-blogger; I doubt I’ll ever hit triple-digit one-day hits, or even triple-digit subscribers. That’s cool with me; I’m not about the fame. I don’t need to make money off my blog – I’m a copywriter by day; I already get paid to write.
But I think I’ve written myself into a corner here. I think I have worked so hard to cultivate my voice and my style, that I have started to limit what I write about because I think it will contradict the image that I have cultivated of myself – as a writer, a mother, a woman.
I think I do have a fairly strong blog ‘persona’ – I am a pretty hardcore attachment parent; I can be a bitch; I eat healthy food; I am sarcastic; I cry a lot.
That’s great. That means that I can write lots and lots about my joy in extended breastfeeding while lamenting the state of my saggy ass and the world in general. I can write about food here and move out of my box a little bit here. I can seriously fuck up crafty projects and attempts at exercising and invite you to make fun of the results. I love a lot of things and hate on a lot of others. I complete you, I’m sure of it.
I like action. All of my tags are verbs. It’s no coincidence. But what happens when the action cannot be categorized by any of my clever little verbs? What happens when life doesn’t just give me lemons, it gives me battery acid? Ok well, I’ll write about the rough patches. Everybody that ever looked at a their stats knows that the blogosphere loves misery.
But what happens when the way my life is going doesn’t exactly correspond with the neat, tidy little image of myself I have grown here? I like to bitch, but I hate to complain. Do I always have to be the poster-mom for co-sleeping and organic food? Are my morals, my image, compromised if I dare to admit that while I love sharing the bed with my children, I don’t always like it?
I refrain from writing a lot of stories, not only because I am a little bit cautious about what I let float into the ether, but also because I think that you think of me in a certain way, and I don’t want to compromise that. In fact, I will probably regret writing that last paragraph for some time to come.
It’s like my body – if I don’t admit that I’ve put on weight, you’ll still think of me as the tiny person I used to be, right?
I put a lot of pressure on myself here, and like many things in my life, when the going gets tough, I tend to check out. Easier to just not write for a while. It’s not writer’s block, or burnout, and it’s not exactly censorship. More of an identity-crisis kind of thing, and how fucking lame is that?
Anyway, I’m going to work it out, and I’m going to work it out here. Because really, there’s no place I’d rather be, regardless of whomever it is I end up being.