So last week I set myself the high and lofty goal to take more photos and blog every day for the school holidays.
And now, 8 days in I’m pretty much, ‘yeah… done with that.’
The blogging I mean. I’m still planning on taking more photos.
My main goal was to challenge myself and stop overthinking every blog post idea that flits into my mind. Besides I also wanted to know if I could blog that consistently. Which I discovered I can. Sure I missed two days, but one we drove 280kms up the road to find a Specsavers (perks of living in the country), and the other, well I blogged, just not for here. (Perks of getting the occasionally paid blogging gig).
It was a good little lesson for me, and I did stop overthinking. Rather than ignoring ideas the minute I had them, I jotted them all down in my notes app, and then wrote them. I still actually have a few left over, so inspired I was. (Did that sound vaguely Yoda-esque?)
I wrote things I probably wouldn’t normally write, and again, that’s good. It pushed me out of my comfort zone, and that’s a necessary push to have every once in a while.
But I didn’t like it. Not the pushing- the blogging every day. I just felt like I was constantly talking; if not in real life, in my head or on the screen. It’s a bit like when you’re at a party with people who maybe don’t know each other well, or don’t really have much to say, and you feel the need to talk to fill the silence. And it’s good, cause uncomfortable silence is not fun for anyone, but at the end of those nights I always feel tired and depleted and like all I did was talk, and not give anyone else a chance to speak; at which point Boatman usually reminds me that no one else wanted the chance, and I was fine, but I always feel uncomfortable about it. I don’t like to talk too much, because then I talk crap. I’d rather talk less and about things that matter.
Apparently I’m the same when it comes to blogging. I prattled on for 5 days about not very much at all, and it was fine, but then Sunday I wrote something I actually meant, and I was satisfied. I felt no need to blog yesterday; I had said something that mattered and my blogging tank was full. Every other day I just wrote for the sake of it, but never felt any real satisfaction (though I do love a good whinge about Facebook, and it’s nice to give some books away), but when I wrote what I had to say it felt like eating something you’ve been craving for the longest time. You could have had a hundred meals in the mean time, but none of them taste quite so sweet as that one.
The irony is, I probably wouldn’t have written what I had on Sunday, if I hadn’t blogged every day for a week prior. The constancy of thinking and writing made me actually question why I was doing it, and I summed it all up in that post. Blogging has stopped being the thing I love doing, so much as the thing which keeps me doing the thing that I love doing, which is writing. It’s opened up the world a little bit, and my mind a little bit more, and my imagination whole bucket loads.
But there’s other stories to tell and things to write, and I’m more than happy to pop in here a couple of times a week, speak my randomness, and catch up with you guys. It’s kinda like coffee. Sometimes I want to go out and catch up with friends, and sometimes I want to drink at home alone, and there’s nothing wrong with that.
And I now realise I have just used two food metaphors which is weird and impressive since apparently I don’t like writing them. Maybe I should write a poem now? Or just quit while I’m ahead. 🙂
So tell me: how often do you blog (if you do).
Do you wish you could blog/more or less?
Do you go out for coffee often?
What food are you jonesing for right now? Me, I would love a Chicken kebab.