That Time I Started Over

Hint: I’m doing it right now.


So, here I am, out on the internet.
Writing.
Again.
For, like, the fifth time.

I feel like I should say something wise and insightful (or at least witty) about consistency and self-care and the good-for-the-soulness of finally committing to a creative project that is 100% Just For You without feeling all that (unnecessary) guilt because your three-year-old is (happily!!) playing with blocks while you type. But it’s five-something AM, and the water for the french press is finally boiling, so I should probably get some coffee brewing and jolt these words into making some sense.

Sidebar: You don’t realize how many noises you sleep through until you make an ill-considered New Year’s resolution to start waking up at 5AM. I am presently huddled on the couch with my notebook and the creeping realization that my home is surrounded by car-starting, door-slamming serial killers. And the ones who aren’t accompanied by loudly-barking, surely human-flesh-craving dogs are revving their motorcycles. You’d think they’d try to employ just a little subterfuge in their dark craft. At least they’re the less-frightening variety of incompetent, merely potential serial killers?

Anyway. Starting over.
It’s kind of my thing.

Many long stories short (involving a maybe-not-so-stable childhood, a ripper of a crisis in my 20s (writing more about this soon), marriage, children, divorce, another marriage, one last child (at 41), and more new jobs and addresses than I can remember), I’ve had to reinvent myself at regular intervals over the past 40ish years. So, really: writing on the Internet shouldn’t be such a big deal. That’s, like, the easiest, least traumatic re-start of all.

So welcome to my tiny internet outpost.
I know. It’s kind of an homage to white space.

But just finding time to write – working in the hairsbreadth margins between work and dinnertime and laundry and please-please-please-I-am-begging-you-to-please-go-to-sleep – is hard enough. I am not bothering with the inscrutable mysteries of WordPress. I paid for this little space, and I get to make the rules.

Rule No. 1: for the love, I am not a “blogger” and we are not calling this thing a “blog.” Blog conjures up all those crazy-making whack-a-mole requirements of networking and social media and self-promotion that put me on the Shinkansen Bullet Train of Comparison and Self-Doubt over All The Things Other People Are Doing. So I’m ignoring all of it, blissfully and without apology. I’m here to write.

And with those boundaries in mind, I’m not exactly sure what I’m going to do here. It’s a blank canvas, with all its limitless, exhilarating, paralyzing possibilities. Remember way back when we just used these spaces to talk about the goofy stuff going on in our lives? Without worrying about agenda or niche or followers? Maybe I’ll just start with that.

If that means my following grows to exactly one reader, so be it.
You and I will have a great time.

2 Replies to “That Time I Started Over”

  1. I’M SO HAPPY I’M TYPING IN ALL CAPS LIKE ANDREW’S GREAT UNCLE LERTIS EXCEPT HOPEFULLY WITHOUT LOTS OF WEIRD EDITORIALIZING ON STUFF INCLUDING THE “LADY JUDGE” THAT WAS DECIDING A CASE THAT CONCERNED OUR FAMILY AND SHE WAS NEVER REFERRED TO WITHOUT THE “LADY” PROCEEDING “JUDGE” AND I HAVE NO IDEA WTF I’M TALKING ABOUT I’M JUST SO GLAD YOU’RE HERE AND I’M LEAVING A COMMENT AND IT INCLUDES “WTF.”

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