"Do not put your journal in your blog", they say.
But that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
For the most part, because journaling is about the only thing I can write nowadays...
If you andered around here these past few years, you've probably noticed that there was not much of a blog (or signs of virtual online-life, for that matter) going on here.
So what happened?
A dear friend died, I almost was in Paris with my little V-boy when the big terrorist attacks happened, I've had some other little and big things happen and deep forgotten stuff came up and BOOM, no blog "as it should be" coming through my fingers.
Historically speaking, I should've seen it coming.
There were past times when words would refuse to come to me for long streaks of time.
Their absence was one of the reasons I started making art, as an attempt to reveal and share the un-expressible-through-words at that time.
Yet I thought, now that I'm a big-arse blogger, the loss of words would not happen.
I’ve waited for Inspiration to come again.
That one, you know, that writes a blog “that counts”, the “full-on-content” blog, the blog that “people want to read”, the valuable one.
The one who helps write the word herds that make me cry while writing, give me goosebumps when I re-read them. The words that were never written before and said exactly what one wants to say in exactly the right tone.
I waited and waited for that inspiration to come. To no avail.
No "publishable words", as such. No happy, shining, inspired, inspiring words.
And, as the gap between what I "should write" and what I could and wanted to write grew bigger, I stopped writing altogether.
"Do not leave time gaps in your blog", they say.
Yet the gap took over and there was nothing I could do about it.
The gap became bigger and bigger and soon it swallowed every little flow.
It swallowed my words, the blog, the website, me, a little localized, personalized black-hole.
I used to love to write my blog.
I used to love to make my videos, with my little V, share a bit of our world.
I felt puzzled, frustrated and at times angry at myself. Guilty.
I pushed myself, questioned myself. I forced myself to write, write something, anything!
I scolded myself, come on, you always said you wanted to be a writer, what's wrong with you.
But then I let life take over, I held on to every day, kept myself from falling but that was about it. I gave up even trying for a while but I was in denial. I had to see, really look at how I really felt. I had to see that I was, most of the time, in a deep depression.
I felt ashamed and I thought:
I should force myself to write something, anything, force myself to commit in some way, give a sign that I am still here.
Just put the pen to the paper (ehm fingers on the keyboard).
Things would fall into place again, I thought,
Also because I do pretty much write things in my head, all the time.
If only I'd sit down and write.
If only I'd make myself practice.
So I've done the right things, you know, made myself a pretty, practical place where I could write (side tangent, who sits there 99% of the time? V-boy of course, furthermore Mary the Cat enjoys it during the night).
.. I've set up a practice, made it as easy as possible for me to sit and write.
I'd figured, I'd better do as I preach for a change. It works for others, it should work for me, too.
I started low key, noting new recipes coming to me in the middle of the night (Birdie, my guide, must have a knack for chocolate :-) ), my dreams (night and day kind), memories, the usual.
Suddenly, every time I'd sit and write, a book started coming through. I've done that for a while.
I loved writing it, but it was no blog material.
It was not even remotely something that I would be comfortable publishing, let alone "in-brand". It was challenging stuff, a bit woo-woo, wacky and beyond.
I started talking about it and some of my friends liked. Others (most of them, I felt) fell awkwardly silent as I was enthusiastically blabbering about it.
I stopped writing. Again. And then started, again.
And then stopped again, and analyzed it and looked at my fears, at my soul mission, all kinds of complicated, enormous, beautiful and scary things that are impossible to describe in this little blog entry.
Started again and on and on it went. For 4 years now.
This is what I figured: I might as well stop dallying and get on with it.
I will write my blog as I am writing it.
I take ownership of my "out there" and my depression bouts, of my big and little stuff.
I will share it all.
I am to do this.
Here is for a non-committed, non-regular and non-consistent sharing of stuff, the way stuff wants to come.
I'll do my best to edit it. Sometimes.
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I write about what makes me feel alive and shining: my work, art, love of life, sun, the sea, essential oils, my V-boy son, raw food and green smoothies.
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