I've been blogging for three years. It's a hobby. An obsession - one of my favourite things in the world. It's equal parts narcissism and reflection. It's so damn FUN .... looking back, looking forward, and the best kind of blogging .... looking within.
Lately I have been telling more and more people that I have a blog. Only because they ask me what I "do", my goodness I hate that question. I was in a really bad place a few years ago and Dave dragged me out to a party. The guy next to me turned to me and said, "So, Eden. What is it that you DO?"
My reply, verbatim -
"Ohhhh, I dunno. Stuff. Eat. Shit. Things like that."
Nobody except for him heard me, thank goodness. I never told Dave what I said - that guy must see me in town and think "FREAK."
So I have started to tell people that I blog, because it gets me off the hook when they ask me how my writing is going. (My writing isn't going anywhere in a hurry.)
My motivation of starting a blog in April 2007 was to document my IVF process. And I ended up meeting all these really cool women, online.
Something has happened in me, since then. And I am about to sound like the biggest wanker in the world right now - but I found my voice. What is it about this medium that so enchants me? Maybe, it's that I can say whatever, do whatever. The options of what you can do in your blog are only limited by your imagination. It's so fucking creatively cool.
Personal blogging is not that big in Australia, yet. I tell people sometimes and they laugh, before mocking me. True. But I don't care ..... I have found life on planet earth to be extraordinarily cruel and hard, for a lot of the time. So anything that feels good and does not harm myself or others, is fine by me. I love blogging so much that I soon have to write up wills for both Dave and I, in case we die in a plane crash on our way over to BlogHer in New York in August.
Blogging through some of the worst times of my life has given me some of the best friendships in my life. I will always blog, hopefully even when my hands are gnarled and wrinkled like layers of cling wrap.
When Max was born, over eight years ago, I had to write my occupation on his birth certificate application form. Ummmm, loser? I wrote "writer." I knew I was an absolute fraud, and when we got his certificate in the mail, Dave scoffed. "What do you write hon?"
My secret is that ever since I was little, I have wanted to be a writer. My grandmother really encouraged me, always told me how well I wrote. At any school I ever went to, all of them - I kicked ARSE in creative writing, but failed everything else miserably. In my early twenties, it was the one thing in my life that gave me hope. I would think, "What if nan was right? What if I make it through this all, and then I can write?"
I get embarrassed when I get complimented on my writing. You know my theory on being a writer? Two things: 1) You must be a good noticer, and 2) You must be a good describer.
That's all. Just pick up the pen (keyboard) ... and write. It's that painfully simple.
These days, when I go to parties and get asked what I "do" ... I say I'm a writer. And I am. And there it is.
I recently decided to delete my old blog, forever. I hadn't poked my head in there for many moons, so I did before I bid it goodbye.
Oh the words. And stories, and all who I met.
I can't bid it goodbye! So I read through every single post - backwards. And edited it. Wow - do you know how many times you use the word "cocksucker" when you are blogging anonymously? A LOT.
I only had to take down a few posts, ones that, you know - people could sue me for. So here it is ...... Indisputable Topcat. It's like, a museum now instead of a lonely ghost town. I've disabled comments on it, mostly to eliminate the spam.
My early posts are cringeworthy - like a fricken Dear Diary. Poorly written and stilted, and all my dark past and early childhood dysfunction accidentally came out. But, I own it. One of the biggest and best things that blogging continues to teach me is that we all have stories. And fucked-upness. And very, very hard times. And love and hope and stinky armpits.