Creating a blog on a whim can be quite the experience, especially when you don’t know what to do with it, much less why you did it in the first place. Maybe it’s because you’re compelled to tell stories that cannot be limited to 140 characters or less. Maybe it’s because a solid ten asked if you write, and you’re not the type of person that says no to a ten, especially when they text first. But you did. You settled for a blog name you hadn’t planned on, published your first post, sat back and waited for the Pulitzer Prize Board to give you a call.
However, since an early age, all you ever wanted to do was traipse through Europe with a troupe of skinny bi-curious women as a director of the ballet, thus instead of endless adoration (or criticism), what follows is skepticism from people who know you, which is understandable. Before the blog, the closest you came to literature was
tweeting Vybz Kartel lyrics. To these naysayers, you tweet a very powerful “H8rz r my motiv8rz” and discard them from your mind like your childhood dreams.
As for your content, you quickly drop the useful advice after one post, because you realize humanity is unquestionably destined to tear itself apart at the seams like knockoff pajamas, so people might as well read about your cat while they wage war on each other every Wednesday. As a result, suddenly everything around you becomes infinitely more interesting, from your roommate’s myopia to the fact that your birthday coincides with World Poetry Day, yet you’re unable to compose anything that doesn’t focus on the subject’s derriere (“Her mother must be a thief, for she stole two moons and stuffed them in her jeans”). You want to tell about how you say a prayer every time you’re in your brother’s old car, how terrified you get when he takes his eyes off the road to blow feathers away from the dashboard, and how you’ve both chosen to ignore the family of chickens that lives underneath the back seat. You take breaks from everyday life to try and write about that girl who stalks you and tells her mother about you, even though she knows her religious parents disapprove because they think you’re an atheist. You feel good. The world is feeding you all this wondrous beauty which you turn into fart jokes for your Internet audience, and you see no end in the horizon.
But like your teenage relationships, Futurama or everything else you thought would last forever, the feeling dies before you’ve had your fill of it. You exhaust all your topics, because your own world became substantially smaller when you started actively trying to shield yourself from the rest of it. Your pieces become shorter and more sparse. Your attempts to avoid first-person narration to mask your narcissism don’t seem to work. Your outwardly nonsensical titles seem counterproductive, but you can’t help yourself. You search the deepest recess of your soul for inspiration, but the only thing you find is the decrepit husk of someone who once desired only to dance, hardly the material you want. You ask around for ideas (because “A problem shared is a problem half solved” or something equally vexingly optimistic). Your female readers want you to explain why men cheat, your male readers want you to express disdain for weaves. You back away and walk in the other direction to find less jilted people, because you’re looking for issues so severe they can’t be solved by listening to ‘70s disco music for a couple of nights.
You approach writers, people you consider level-headed and less polemic, for help. Instead, they drag you outside using their scarves where they pummel you into the ground with copies of The Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter for disrespecting their craft. You get booted away, crossly told to return only when you learn bigger words, after which they go back inside to idolize Paulo Coelho and scoff at e-books.
But I don’t want to cantankeriosis the phantasmagorification, you think to yourself as you nurse several nasty paper cuts, I just want to tell the world how great 30 Rock was.
So you go back to your keyboard, feeling you’re all alone in your world like Tom Hanks in Cast Away, and continue typing, still trying to work in your film-based imagery.
You eventually find your content endearing itself to other faceless like-minded people who get your pop culture references, and suddenly you’re not quoting movies by yourself, you filthy animal. The Universe, in a rare display of generosity, somehow decides to spoil you and make up for everything that happened to you in 2011. You find people that actually spend the precious oxygen in their blessed lungs discussing your work, and one or two people whose interest has been aroused enough to want to meet you in person, something you never expected, because you expected to impress absolutely nobody.
You feel you’ve come a long way. It’s been a year since you decided to penetrate the “blogosphere” with your hot, throbbing stories. Motivation and uncertain futures aside, you’re feeling good about how things turned out and you’re about to congratulate yourself with some applause straight from 1941 right now.