Aside from my 9+ year relationship with my partner, blogging has to be my longest commitment. I’ve written 266 posts (this will be 267) and I’ve been writing semi-regularly since 25 April last year. That’s pretty impressive for me. Usually, I start something, am super keen for a few days/weeks/months and then – poof! – I get bored and move on.
This has happened with the gym… over and over again. It happened with bike riding (after I bought a bike and all the paraphernalia that goes with it, of course). It happened with cross stitching (don’t judge me). It’s happened with countless other things. Fuck, it even happens with me and actual people. What can I say? I’m a fickle bitch, I can’t pretend otherwise.
But somehow blogging seems to have stuck. Maybe doing a writing degree was a good idea. Even if I don’t ever write a book or end up working in ‘the industry’, it’ll have re-introduced me to the joy of writing for writing’s sake. It’ll have given me a place to type out my thoughts and then share them with the interwebs (and a few friends and family members who also read this, a fact I can’t ever quite seem to forget although I try not to let it influence what I write about). I will always appreciate that.
As a teenager, I kept a daily diary and wrote poems and stories. I actually kept a diary into my early twenties and I still have them all. I read a few pages of one a few months ago – oh my god, I was troubled. But I suppose most of us would feel that way looking back on our teenage selves (or am I just trying to make myself feel better?). Regardless I feel like I’m back in touch with that part of me, the part that just loved to write and create, even if what I write about now is not as hormone addled (most of the time).
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