Sometimes I get the urge to start writing without knowing where things are going. Sometimes I end up with a fun anecdote about my childhood and sometimes I end up writing about more serious things like anxiety and depression and real-life trolls. Sometimes I sit down and words flow from my mind to my fingertips and go across the paper or screen or what-have-you and just move. Other times, like when I’m trying to write a paper for homework about a specific subject that I’m not particularly fond of, things just halt.
Sometimes I’m really proud of what I write, like the front page article I wrote about the MTC open house. Other times I look at my writing and wonder why I thought it was important for my Facebook followers to know that I was stuck at my parents’ computer store for another hour.
Writing is more than just something I do for a hobby or for work, even. It’s about being vulnerable without getting hurt. It’s about sharing stories (whether they be true, fiction, or embellished) and getting ideas out of my mind and transforming them into something that someone, somewhere, might just want to read. Or enjoy reading. Or hate reading.
I don’t blog because I want to document my entire life. I’ve got social media, friends, letters, photos, and a diary for that.
I blog because someone told me I had to do something for a class project once. Or, at least, that’s why I started blogging. I had this great big idea about explaining religious concepts to people who don’t understand my beliefs. I thought it would be better than it was.
Then I started blogging because I thought I had something to say, even when I didn’t have anything to say.
Now, I blog because I want to. Sometimes it’s because I have something to add to society’s narrative. Sometimes it’s because there’s something inside of me asking to be said.
Other times, it’s because I’m avoiding homework and procrastinating the crud out of reading The Odyssey, even though I think it’s fascinating.