For the first day of NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month), I want to start with something difficult, and the reason why I’m participating in this monthly challenge.
I’ve lost all affection for my writing voice, and I don’t entirely know why.
These days, it’s challenging for me to get excited about writing anything personal. Everything I post, aside from ink swatches, makes me cringe, even simple replies to others' posts. When I started writing online, it was so easy to share any little moss-bulb of detail, despite lacking confidence in my voice or purpose. It was enough to noodle in public; I had a stage (my website) and tap-tap-tapping its microphone didn’t make me feel immediately self-conscious.
A few years ago, I pushed — harder than I’ve pushed for many things in my life — for the “community” aspect of Micro.blog to be more than a shared timeline. I wanted it to be something I could lean back softly into, both an audience and support group, comprised of people who shared the same penchant for collecting and amplifying small treasures of moments.
The people exist (and they are wonderful, I read what they share with delight) but the community? I know now that what I was asking for doesn’t exist online in the same way it did, but I didn’t know that yet. I kept pushing and pushing, until one day I just … stopped. Everything I said seemed to repulse people instead of drawing them closer. It was easier to find what I needed and wanted in the friendships I was slowly and intentionally building offline than it was for me to do that online. And that was a first for me. Much of my life, up to that point, had been spent focusing on connecting online.
Because much of my life, up to that point, had been lived online.
I don’t really want to go back to living so much online. But sometimes I’m nostalgic for the feeling of being understood through my writing, shades of myself that I don’t know how to represent except through words.
It’s supremely cringey even to post this, but I’m going to push through in the hopes there’s some self-acceptance on the other side of it. I’m not ready to stop writing altogether. In some ways, I feel like I’ve barely begun.