I don’t like to do things, unless I can do them well. I hate falling short of what should or could be. I hate conceding. I am not wired to quit.
But I think it’s time to admit that I've failed; I’m not a blogger.
I tried. I did my best to write as much as I could. I read the posts and the e-books and the articles that talked about Blog Titles and SEO (which I still don’t understand or even know what it is). I attempted to implement the advice for adding followers and readers and subscribers and building the all-powerful PLATFORM (because I’ll never ever publish a book without one – it’s a known fact).
I don’t add pictures that are taken from my 35mm camera. The ones on my blog are either Instagrams taken off an old iPhone, or they are from my talented friend Jennifer. They don’t show the white, sunlit walls of my impeccable house with gallery walls and well groomed children. No pictures of Hunter’s boots in sand/snow/puddles/grass.
I don’t engage on those hot button topics on Twitter. I used to follow them and try. But I’m not the one to battle and write out convincing arguments. I cannot craft well written and succinct treatises that can move and persuade. I’m a 9 on the Enneagram and I just want us all to get along.
I don’t have a newsletter and my blogging is about as infrequent as it can be. I don’t’ know which days and times are best for sharing my posts. I am too tired to do all the different link ups and synchroblogs and other things I tried so hard to participate in when I started.
I am blessed with some amazing friends. They are such talented writers and they are fantastic bloggers. I’m in awe of what they do. But I can’t do it.
Over the past six months I've battled. I've wondered what to do, how to do it. I've seen bloggers and writers I respect post some hurtful things. I've seen egos explode on Twitter. I've seen anger and hurt and cries for justice and hope and life all spoken at the same time, getting lost and hidden and I've just wanted to walk away.
I've stifled my words because it felt like a giant echo chamber and I don’t like adding to the noise. There are so many beautiful words out there fighting for breath……why add mine?
I live in a city and it is houses and buildings and streets and dirt all so close together that there isn't a lot of room to breathe. It’s loud and pressed in and unrelenting. But I realize my breath comes from typing out words on a screen – here is where my lungs expand and find the air I need. Here the sun shines and the breeze is clean and crisp. The space is wide and expansive and there is room for me. There is room for you.
|From A Shared Lens|
I admit I've failed as a blogger, but I’m still a writer.
So I’ll keep blogging. Infrequently or frequently will depend on my mood, depend on my time. I’ll blog when I want to share the beauty that surrounds me. I’ll blog when I see my girls look up at the clouds and talk about God. I’ll blog when I look out on the lake, listening to crashing waves while the sand warms my feet. I’ll blog when there are more babies shot in my city and my heart is bursting because I’m just so tired of the violence. And I’ll blog when I remind myself that my girls aren't just princesses, they are mighty Dragon Slayers and the world better watch out.
I’ll remember that scarcity is a myth. And I’ll do what I am made to do.
A huge thank you to Elora, for listening when I was tired and reminding me who I am.