I’m not sure about blogging anymore.
I don’t know if it’s just a phase I’m in or what but, I keep asking myself what the point is of this whole gig. I don’t fit in a niche. I’m not a Mommy Blogger, per se. I’m another Mom with a blog. But it’s not going anywhere or doing anything. So where do I fit in?
I’m not sure what it’s accomplishing for me or for any greater good anywhere on this planet. I love my friends that I’ve made through blogging and Twitter. I love my blog. But I am having a really hard time looking a life as a blog post lately.
I know that I want to write. Which is why I blog, kind of. But I’m not sure what it is that I want to be writing or what I want to do with it once I write it. I feel like I have so many story ideas that are ready to burst yet I don’t have the proper tools to give them the proper life. It’s frustrating.
Yesterday, during my Creative Writing class, we watched a film with three famous, modern day poets. Robert Bly, Marilyn Chin and Jimmy Santiago Baca. In this film, they read some of their work but they were also interviewed.
I was transfixed. Mesmerized.
I hung on to every word that they uttered. Their poems. Their interviews. The two become one. Their words, poetry. I am in awe of their art. I am envious of their gift.
I want that. I want to emanate. To radiate. To exhale. Poetry. Song. Prose.
Something happened inside me yesterday. Watching that film.
I can’t explain it. Because I have no idea what it is. It’s this feeling. This burning. Yearning.
I was completely blown away by how intense my desire to write really is. I can feel it in my chest. In my stomach. In my mouth. In my mind.
It’s frustrating. I don’t know if it’s fear, laziness or lack of self confidence that is holding me back. Could be lack of time?
But I do know that writing here. On my blog. I’m not doing something right. For me. For my blog.
I can’t put my finger on it though. I want it…me…to be something else. Not the drama of Twitter or the drama of trying to get my children to behave. Something more. Something…I don’t know…bigger. Greater. And I’m not talking about money or fame. I’m talking content.
I keep trying to reach for it. For that idea. That dream that will tell me what I want to know. But, my arms aren’t long enough, even when I stand on my tippy toes.