I am very much of a blog reader. I don't know how I stumbled upon my first favorite or, indeed, on some of the others. But when the bloggers I follow haven't updated in awhile, I click on their links and that is usually how I find new ones. Tonight, because I was unable to sleep, I found this one. OK, to be fair, I did try to go to bed at 8:30 because I was really tired, couldn't sleep, and so decided to give Ulysses another try (I think this attempt no. 4), and then decided to get up and go online. But still, that is how I found this new blog.
I almost wish I hadn't. Every blog that I bookmark and follow is one that I enjoy and the writer is one I admirer. They are all incredibly intelligent, eloquent, witty, and wonderful. I never think to myself "this is what I aspire to" because I don't. I know that I am too impatient and too impulsive to ever be as good a writer. That's something people in my life have always said about me. "You're such a good writer!" "One day you are going to write a book!" "You should write the story of your life!" But what no one ever considers is the fact that I don't really have it in me. I'm not bad or stupid, I just don't have the patience or inclination that is necessary to write really well.
A friend at work once asked if what she read was what I initially posted or if I'd reworked it. When I briefly (and regrettably) decided to go back to school for a master's degree, J expressed his comical resentment that the first draft of a research paper I'd written was so good in his opinion when his always took a number of drafts to get there.
But I don't go back. What I write is what I post. Granted, I do a read through to clean up glaring spelling mistakes and grammatical errors (I'm always shocked to find that I've written something like "I has" or "it was a many" or something equally boneheaded). But I don't tweak and I don't save and return later to fine tune. When I first realized that other people did this in their blogs, I was kind of shocked. I treat mine as a stream of consciousness journal entry and just let it out. I think if I did go back, I'd probably just sound pretentious, pedantic, and stupid. Others, however, sound marvelous.
This latest blog really makes me feel put to shame not just in my writing ability but in my thought processes. This is a woman who can really write and who can really express herself. Perhaps if her blog was about something other than her broken marriage, I'd feel differently. But as it is, she's not even in the same place as am I. Her blog begins post divorce and I am but two months into a separation with no guarantee. She is also a mother of two children and years older than I. I still marvel at her eloquence and intelligence, her candidness, and brilliance.
So I'm glad I found her. J, as well as his brother, have spoken about the depression they feel at life being so meaningless. The three of us are all atheists but I seem to be the only one who is not concerned about leaving this world without something of me left behind for future generations. I never really understood that. I mean, if I'm too be celebrated, wouldn't I want that when I was alive to enjoy it? So I'm not concerned with leaving my mark on this world, even if I do hope that I'm remembered kindly rather than as a raging bitch who only cared for herself (which I swear to god, my kin twin seems to want me to be without knowing it).
But I do understand the jealousy of another person's abilities. This woman may go to her grave with no fame or long term remembrance for this brilliant blog that she's maintained, but she will be admired in her life time by a few people. And it isn't even the admiration so much as the confidence that I hope she feels in her ability and her amazing talent for writing. I get that.
But not enough to not publish this post right now without letting it sit for even a day to let me revisit and rewrite.
I almost wish I hadn't. Every blog that I bookmark and follow is one that I enjoy and the writer is one I admirer. They are all incredibly intelligent, eloquent, witty, and wonderful. I never think to myself "this is what I aspire to" because I don't. I know that I am too impatient and too impulsive to ever be as good a writer. That's something people in my life have always said about me. "You're such a good writer!" "One day you are going to write a book!" "You should write the story of your life!" But what no one ever considers is the fact that I don't really have it in me. I'm not bad or stupid, I just don't have the patience or inclination that is necessary to write really well.
A friend at work once asked if what she read was what I initially posted or if I'd reworked it. When I briefly (and regrettably) decided to go back to school for a master's degree, J expressed his comical resentment that the first draft of a research paper I'd written was so good in his opinion when his always took a number of drafts to get there.
But I don't go back. What I write is what I post. Granted, I do a read through to clean up glaring spelling mistakes and grammatical errors (I'm always shocked to find that I've written something like "I has" or "it was a many" or something equally boneheaded). But I don't tweak and I don't save and return later to fine tune. When I first realized that other people did this in their blogs, I was kind of shocked. I treat mine as a stream of consciousness journal entry and just let it out. I think if I did go back, I'd probably just sound pretentious, pedantic, and stupid. Others, however, sound marvelous.
This latest blog really makes me feel put to shame not just in my writing ability but in my thought processes. This is a woman who can really write and who can really express herself. Perhaps if her blog was about something other than her broken marriage, I'd feel differently. But as it is, she's not even in the same place as am I. Her blog begins post divorce and I am but two months into a separation with no guarantee. She is also a mother of two children and years older than I. I still marvel at her eloquence and intelligence, her candidness, and brilliance.
So I'm glad I found her. J, as well as his brother, have spoken about the depression they feel at life being so meaningless. The three of us are all atheists but I seem to be the only one who is not concerned about leaving this world without something of me left behind for future generations. I never really understood that. I mean, if I'm too be celebrated, wouldn't I want that when I was alive to enjoy it? So I'm not concerned with leaving my mark on this world, even if I do hope that I'm remembered kindly rather than as a raging bitch who only cared for herself (which I swear to god, my kin twin seems to want me to be without knowing it).
But I do understand the jealousy of another person's abilities. This woman may go to her grave with no fame or long term remembrance for this brilliant blog that she's maintained, but she will be admired in her life time by a few people. And it isn't even the admiration so much as the confidence that I hope she feels in her ability and her amazing talent for writing. I get that.
But not enough to not publish this post right now without letting it sit for even a day to let me revisit and rewrite.
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