After I closed the computer on my post from yesterday, I started thinking again about why I keep revisiting this platform. For the most part, blogging has gone by the wayside of quicker, more visual platforms. Microblogs on Instagram. Reels and Tik Toks and snippets of thoughts reach people quickly, and allow readers/listeners to connect audio and visual cues to (sometimes) feel closer to people than writing does alone. Writers and bloggers I know have migrated to Substack. I’ve started an account there, though I haven’t waded into those waters yet.
I have different journals crowding my desk — reading logs and affirmations and stream of consciousness writing I basically toss in the recycling bin when I come to the end of a notebook, sometimes pulling out pages where an idea or two might make sense to explore. (I rarely explore. I should. I should do many things.)
When I revisited the idea of posting here, I didn’t want it to be another journal. I don’t know exactly what I wanted it to be, honestly. I knew I needed to get my butt back in the seat if I wanted to try to write again. By write, I mean get back to short stories, a novella, maybe that novel I have notes on and an idea for a major overhaul. The novel that sits unedited because it’s intimidating, and I’m unsure I remember how to do the one thing that used to come to me like breathing. I didn’t want to start the Substack yet, because I want that to be more polished, more readable, perhaps a little more important than the posts that keep ending up in the “musings” category.
It’s become a little like a journal.
I haven’t found my polish yet.
Still, I’m trying not to let too many days pass without logging into this space, without putting something on the screen. I’m hoping, though it feels fleeting most days, that one day I might look back and see these posts as bricks, small pavers, the pieces of the path that leads me back to fiction, to the space I love and hope to see again soon. Maybe that’s why I’m here.
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