Good morning world, I can’t believe it’s been four months since I’ve written a blog post here. I’ve been far too busy feeling like I had nothing to say. I feel like I woke up one morning thinking that because I wanted to focus on photography, writing wasn’t important anymore. I’m not quite sure what was going on in my head really.
I literally stopped writing for about three months. I have a vague recollection of starting a blog post several times and then changing my mind because I wasn’t sure what I would say, or knowing what I wanted to say but feeling like it wasn’t worth being written, much less being read. I know, it’s pretty pathetic when you think about it.
But here’s the thing, I actually miss the interaction and sense of community that being a blogger brought to me. There’s just something so special about connecting with others over a shared thought. As humans, we thrive on relationships and communities of like-minded people.
I also missed just getting my thoughts out. I’m sure that’s why I gave in and bought myself another journal in early July. It’s a pink one that says Eat Cake For Breakfast on the front. I’m pretty sure I chose that particular journal because it has six different colored bookmarks. If there had been a forest green one that said Be One With Nature, I would have gotten that one instead, but I’m not sure such a thing even exists.
Anyway, for the last month, I’ve been writing in said journal. I’ve been putting my mind on paper and it feels good to do so. I don’t worry about sentence structure or grammar. It doesn’t matter if I jump from one topic to the other because that’s what a person’s mind does. It doesn’t matter if one moment I’m writing about the drama that went down at work and the next I’m debating if I want KD or Mr.Noodles for lunch.
It just feels really good to put thoughts into words again. As far as my journal goes, I won’t worry about what I write until some twenty years in the future when I’m a mom and my teenage daughter, assuming I have one, has gotten her hands on my journal and wants to know why it didn’t occur to me to have a tuna sandwich instead.
She’ll read my journal and get to know me like no one else really does. My husband might if he were to read my journal, but at the moment, my thoughts are mine alone. Between the covers of my journal, there is no judgment. Only a release of confusion, frustration, ideas, and dreams scratched in blue and black ink.
It was in my journal that I was writing late last night after chatting with one of my sisters that I thought about blogging again. I felt like just maybe I had something worth being read again. I thought maybe, even if I just blog about the books I’ve been reading, I’ll at least be communicating my thoughts to someone other than myself again.
Then maybe, just maybe, I’ll find my way back to being the storyteller that I was intended to be.