Khop, take 2?

I used to be a blogger; in fact, I used to write all the time. And then I stopped. Why? Somewhere along the line I developed this gut-wrenching and alarming case of self-consciousness at all the over-indulgent narcissism that comes with being a blogger. After all, to write a blog, you must have the audacity to assume that someone will take interest in what you have to say. Otherwise, you'd stick to recording your thoughts in a diary kept under the mattress. For three years I charged ahead, clicking away on my laptop without so much as a hint of stage fright. Then, without warning, I was transported back to middle school, you know, where blending in is crucial to survival. Wardrobe, hair and make-up decisions are made fraught with worry. Every day is navigated with the terror of saying the wrong thing and looking uncool. Funny thing is, I didn't have any of that self-consciousness in middle school. Photographic evidence shows that I could have grossly benefited from it, too, as let's face it, I was a fashion train wreck. But I digress.

Anyway, I found myself filled with embarrassment at making this assumption; after all, who the hell do I think I am? And why would anyone care to know about my foibles making butternut squash soup or my quest to make it to and from work on the ghetto train without getting mugged? Slightly mortified, I found myself paralyzed. Where did all this stage fright come from? I have all these theories that have to do with boyfriends and Facebook and my job and my audience. Perhaps I will expand on these reasons another time. Perhaps not. Bottom line is that my poor little rag has grown cobwebs over the past year and a half, and if you take a gander on over over to it, you'll see some tumbleweed floating past and hear nothing but crickets.

I've decided to pick it up again for a few reasons. First and foremost, because I miss the process and the finished product. Finishing a new post gave a feeling akin to the euphoria one feels after a super big puke. Ah, so good. Plus, it was cool to see the body of work grow over time, like I had something to show for all the bad dates, kitty surgeries, home improvement attempts, and career misadventures. For all that's happened to me over the past year and a half, the period of time feels surprisingly hollow, like I've forgotten a lot of the good bits because I haven't written about them.

Plus, I've told the story of The Concussion so many times, I'm starting to feel like a broken record.

In addition to the organic motivation to get back on the writing horse, I've been given some external motivation, as well. I went after a writing gig I would have loved, loved, LOVED to snag, but was told that while my style is entertaining and that I do posses certain level of proficiency for the written word, my lack of current web presence gave the editor serious pause.

Fair enough. How convenient for me that I've rid myself of both the boyfriend and the high-falutin' job. Coincidentally, my stage fright has dried up as well, and these days I find myself channeling the spirits of my seventh grade self and my dearly departed grandma, neither of whom could not care less what others thought. I'm going to take care to practice this new outlook in moderation, though, as my grandmother was a woman who did not believe in Daylight Savings Time. And I was a pre-teen who thought she was the shit, strutting around in her harem pants. The Facebook compulsion? Well, three out of four ain't too bad...

Too legit to quit,

khop