An early photo of me, in the actual act of blogging.
Eleven years ago today I had this idea to start a blog. It was a whim, really, born of the fact I'd just landed in a new country where I didn't know a soul, and wasn't quite sure what to do with myself.
Before that whim went and died, I posted this, which said, among other things:
Meanwhile, my creativity demands a rest. Running amuck is hard work, and I have, remember, just given birth, to what promises to be a very exciting toddler.
Stick around, help me raise this kid, and maybe we'll both learn a thing or two.
I was pretty enthusiastic at first, spilling my guts in purple ink on my shiny blog on a regular basis, sometimes even two or three times a day.
Then I joined an ad network, and the thought of revenue seemed to sap my creative urges like that giant sucking sound I hear politicians go on about (but that I've never actually heard, unless they're talking about that slurp you hear when you empty the dishwater).
Fortunately, it wasn't long before I'd made friends in my new home and discovered how to drive and most importantly, got a National Trust membership. As I blogged less and less, I lived more and more. I quit thinking of my life's events as just another blog post. I quit waking up with my mind tumbling over with clever chatter, none of which sounded quite as clever when I actually committed it to keyboard several hours later.
And somewhere along the way I found my way back to fiction, where I'd started (back in second grade--but that's another story. Ha.). I published a couple books, under a different name, and blogged even less.
I don't want to stop blogging--I really like having a platform, even if it isn't the platform it once was, and I like having a place to talk about my dog, my politics, and my passions, whatever they happen to be. So I'll continue to post sporadically.
And if I ever wake up with clever chatter, I'll try to post it before I am convinced it's not quite so clever.
Eleven years. Seriously; where has the time gone?