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Only now we call it navel gazing

03.02.09 | blogging | 15 Comments

Turns out posting about not having friends is a good way to make friends, and also that as soon as your social calendar starts to fill up, your church calendar gets busy too. So I haven’t been online much, or writing. I know you’ll be shocked when I tell you that I haven’t had time to miss the part of my surfing that was aimless: I’ve been too busy snuggling with Spot, nagging Dick to come and play with us, and listening to Sally read to Susan (is there anything sweeter?).

But I do miss the linky interwebby awesomeness (to quote BooMama) and writing is like any exercise — stop for any length of time and you can’t think of a single reason why you should risk muscle strain while getting all sweaty and out of breath.

Why is it easier to be either completely plugged-in or totally disconnected?

This afternoon, after being “on” all morning at church, I got to hide myself away in my room while the kids napped, lazing around next to Dick’s warm body, and reading a book cover to cover.

That the book was an enjoyable half-historical romance with some deeper themes by Barbara Michaels (Elizabeth Peters) was almost incidental. I found myself thinking that jail time or physical incapacitation of some non-contagious sort wouldn’t really be very bad if I had an unlimited supply of escapist fiction.

Patriot’s Dream was published the year before I was born, but I laughed (OL) at what could have been Barbara Michael’s ahead-of-her-time indictment of blogging:

“. . . I don’t approve of this self-pitying verbal diarrhea known as catharsis; but there are times when people have to spit out what’s bugging them, get it out of their system.” (p. 296)

Last week I read a really unfortunate thread on a Mormon group blog about the relative scope and merits of mommy blogging.

Sometimes I wish my blog were more about writing, or cultural statements, rather than mommy moments. Or that I at least had a profound commentary to offer about the mommy moments: universal truths gleaned or profound insights gained from the daily struggle against temper and tantrums and teenagers-to-be.

But I don’t, and whenever I’m moved enough by something other than cute buns and chubby knees to write outside my self-circumscribed sphere, it’s usually because something is bugging me so much I simply have to get it out.

I’m pretty sure that’s no way to launch a writing career.

Why is it easier to be either completely happy with the life that is and the duties of the day or totally dissatisfied and convinced that ambition is the answer?

This week I’m talking about blogging at a church lady night on family history. Dick and I were talking about it as we drove home from a family dinner. He was pointing out all the different things blogging is and does for me. I got a little frustrated, because I’d told him the spiel was supposed to be about blogging for family history. Period.

And I did tell him that, this morning, as I answered the questions for Sally’s spotlight, I looked back through a month’s worth of posts, trying to come up with a “short, funny story” about Sally. I finally wrote about the time that we took Sally to the zoo in Cairo and paid the zookeepers (it was their idea) to let the giraffe eat food off Sally’s head.

This was the first time I ever remember looking at old posts on my blog and being happy with what I saw. I am relieved to say I’m proud of what has come from my fingers. I own it, and for now I’m not ashamed that my life and concerns are rather narrow.

That life and those concerns are much different than I had envisioned, and, yet, that doesn’t make them wrong (duh). I’ve mostly stopped apologizing to others for not being smart or coordinated enough to do it all (whatever it “all” is). Now I just need to stop apologizing to my eighteen year-old self. What did she know anyway?

Jane

(If you have any thoughts on blogging for family history purposes, I’d appreciate hearing them before Wednesday night.)

totally unrelated, but fun to read

15 Comments


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