Confession: I used to be a flake. Until as recently as 1-4 years ago, I was so light, tender and flaky that pie crusts made of Crisco were jealous.
I said yes when I meant no; I tried to follow through on things I was passionately uninterested in; I abandoned ship when my interest waned; and I let good people – people who believed in my potential – down, and down hard. Embarassing. I’m mortified by my previous self.
I think I’m pretty much over being flaky, for the most part. Having wee ones depend on you for basic survival pretty effectively snuffs out uncommitted flames, and for that, I’m deeply grateful. Being flaky is a luxury, and a pretty screwed-up one that no one really needs – or wants.
So, given my recent, mortifying history of flakiness, any evidence of follow-through is cause for celebration. Let’s celebrate three months of blogging and 50ish posts.
Darlings, I’m not setting the bar low. I’m ecstatic with my 50-something posts and I’m itching to write more. Truly. I’m on fire for the written word and let me tell you, the comments and emails and instances of people quoting my blog in front of me are soul-food for the praise-whore. And I freely, wholly, enthusiastically admit to being a praise-whore. I should have been blogging long, long ago because oh, the inappropriate people I would NOT have slept with for attention.
So let’s rejoice at this modest achievement (small victories are sweet), which has:
- generated no money
- not directly contributed to me getting some
- consumed a LOT of effing time
- generated a small amount of hate mail
- not helped me lose weight and in fact has contributed to my growing confidence that I am awesome just as I am
- suddenly produced a foreign and very, very welcome approach to life and love that is merciless, tender, ecstatic and interesting
For these reasons, I’ve fallen hard and I love my blog so much I want to french-kiss it. I love my readers even more. The people who comment – well, my darlings, you do naughty things to me. Please do more of that.
I’m on fire. I’m radiant. I’m writing, I’m living, I’m here, and I’m in.
Even better: I have new friends, and they’re doing amazing things. They’re writing blogs, books proposals, books, and are snake-charming super-famous people who, it turns out, are incredibly accessible, after all. It is inspiring, wind-beneath-my-wings stuff. I’m easy, essentially: inspire me and I’ll be your new BFF.
Writing this blog, following through with a goal, week after week, sharpening my writing skills, honing my passion, and connecting with so many amazing people because of it – I could never have imagined that this little whim could be so rich, deep and wide.
Along the way, I’ve written about all the weird and wonderful things that make my passion chords reverberate: sex, promiscuity, dating, bodies, fat, fat acceptance, my trampy girlfriends and their happy/sexy marriages, Barack Obama, Twitter, Michael Jackson, my beautiful babies, the cult of imperial motherhood, and also my profound discomfort with mommy blogging; happiness, will power (x 4), interracial relationships; racism; and of course bald men. Because I love bald men. (And these are just some of my favourite pieces – what are yours?)
And then I wrote for World’s Strongest Librarian, because Josh Hanagarne asked me to, and his blog is as rich, wide, quirky, unfocused and straight-up fabulous as I hope that mine will one day be.
I always wrote; but now I write and it is read – by you – and that is beautiful. This is what it feels like to be an artist. My heart sings. Thank you.