On this day in history

I started blogging a year ago today [1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th posts in one day, unbelievable]. God that was a depressing and optimistic time. . .

Over the year, it's been a thing I've needed it to be at different times. At first [painfully] it was a soap box for my disaffected [pseudo-]corporate foray. Then it was something of an intellectual [political, religious, philosophical, sociological et cetera, ad infinitum] revolt against it. Now it's a gallery showcase for whatever human being might want to pay me to write [it's worked twice now].

Since it's really no one thing the way other blogs are one thing, and probably because my writing is an acquired taste [that is, not very good or even comprehendable] and I no longer post very often, not many people read it. To those that do, though, thanks for being critical and kind as needed, helping and forcing me to become a better writer and--dare I say--earth citizen.

Give yourselves a round of applause.

As a reward [or punishment, you know which you deserve], here's my favorite snippet from that first day [fourth post, which also gave us the blog's original title "Cripplingly Narcissistic and a Horrible Speller", also crappy]:

The last entry was too snotty and punk rock. I'm not nearly that thoughtful or tortured a soul. It's a big goddamned front. I was playing at being overtly cynical because secretly I feel so giddily optimistic about where this blogging thing could take me. Artistically.

I imagine myself sitting down at a coffee shop somewhere while I pour over the constructive comments posted about my blog and, by extension, myself. The creative inspiration literally gushes out of me. This upwelling causes quite a commotion and I'm asked to leave. I cross the street to another coffee shop where I bravely churn out page after page of my novel, taking breaks only to finish my short stories and order more scones.

I'm immediately the talk of the goddamned town--all towns really. And then the imagining ends more or less and a blithe feeling of contentment takes it's place.

This is what blogging seems to do for me and it's awesome and I feel I'm definitely going places. Though once again in the interest of veracity, the delusions aren't new, just more frequent.

Gutwrenchingly transparent but also, in it's own way, fake. Almost seems like I was reflecting on months of writerly successes and failures, rather than 48 minutes worth [of failures].