My posture has slipped again. I can feel the joints of my spine crack softly as I straight up. A few moments from now, and I’m sure I’ll be slouching again.
Always trying to correct myself. Always slipped back into old, comfortable habits.
What am I trying to do here? I ask myself that question too often.
I guess I’m trying to start a blog. Again.
This isn’t my first blog. Truth is, it isn’t even my second. This is blog number three.
I’m not great at finishing things. It’s not that I’m a quitter. More like a …fizzler.
It’s a common condition amongst us, I suppose. Heck, January is basically the official month of starting something that you’re not going to see through. And I have this great fear that this will be the story of my life.
That somehow it’s peaked, and from here on, all my goals and dreams will essentially fizzle out.
For many, adulthood becomes the graveyard of dreams.
I guess that’s what brings me to this chair, writing away on a Sunday night when I could be doing one of a thousand more entertaining things. Because I like to think that life is just getting started. I like to think that this is only the beginning of my story.
I like telling stories. Always have.
Even in elementary school, I remember feeling a rush while making commentary and telling stories to my classmates. I enjoyed it way more than I enjoyed whatever the teacher was trying to teach me. And I have a report card to prove it.
Timothy seems far more concerned with entertaining those around him than he does paying attention.
That’s what my teacher said. She was right.
It wasn’t enough to entertain my classmates though. One day, I wanted to tell my stories to the world. More than anything, that’s what I’ve always wanted to do.
Dreams are much more pure when you’re a child. Untainted by outside expectations and responsibilities. As the world takes its toll on your perception though, you start to settle for what you can in the moment.
Even then, the dreams never really die. They’re still there, under the skin, alive and moving like the blood in your veins. Through everything I have experienced in my life, my passion for stories has remained.
But a story that’s never told is useless. It’s kinetic energy, stored and waiting to be used.
So here we go. The third try at blogging. My first blog died because it lacked purpose or vision. It was a lovely little movie blog that was actually getting around 15-20 thousand hits a month by the time it died.
Had I realized how many views that was for a one man blog, well, it might still be around.
As for the second blog, I spent far too much time trying to do ‘what you’re supposed to do’ when you write a blog. Eventually I reached a point where I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t, stuck trying to enter community of bloggers who spend their time writing the same posts over and over while patting each other on the back.
In fact, I just checked one of the more popular ones, and sure enough, the person is writing the exact same thing they were 4 years ago.
That’s great for them. Me? I want to tell stories.
Whether it’s of me or people I know or characters I create, I’m not entirely sure. I suppose you could say it’s a bit of a…blank page. (See what I did there?)
Whatever happens, I’ll be writing here. And if you care to listen, feel free to come back here. I think this is what blogs were originally supposed to be.
The way I see it, it’s better to have 10 people reading my stuff than to have zero people reading it. At the very least, it’s a good place to start. Or in this case, re-start.
Now excuse me while I straighten my posture again.