I May As Well Start Here

I may as well start here.

It’s close enough to the beginning of a new year to start a new thing, or — as in this case — to restart an old thing. Once upon a time (half a decade ago, it sounds longer if you say it that way) I made a casual new years resolution (I never know where to put the apostrophe in new years so I just leave it out) to write on this here website twice a week. That year I had over a million hits on this here website, due mostly to a viral blog post about feminism that would quite likely be considered Problematic nowadays, or at least Woefully Naive.

I want to start writing again. Here.

I’ve started and restarted a few times in the past half-decade. And I’ve written quite a few things of which I am very proud. But as the years have gone past, the twice-a-week habit gradually became twice-a-month, and then not much more than twice a year. Blame the usual culprits: I got busy, blogging died, I started taking anti-depressants.

Mostly though, I stopped writing because I’ve written quite a few things of which I am very proud, and I am frightened to write anything less than almost-perfect.

What if it is off-brand? What if you read it and think “meh”? What if you read it and think I am Problematic, or at least Woefully Naive? What if you don’t read it at all?

“Only publish that which is almost perfect” says my inner critic.

But there are more words inside me that want to become pixels and who am I to deny their existence?

///

A few months ago I sat down in this same yellow chair where I am sitting now (the same one from this story) and started writing in a sketchbook.

Like writing on the internet, writing in a journal is a habit I’ve started many times by now. This time, it stuck. As I’ve filled all those unlined pages with scribbled words, I remembered what it felt to write Just For The Hell Of It, not because I am trying to make a Nearly Perfect Essay.

It felt right.

///

I want to start writing again, here.

And to clear out the rusty old pipes so that the words can flow freely, I’m trying to eliminate anything that aids and abets the voice of doubt. Specifically:

– Functionality that would allow anyone to leave comments here

– Header photos. (Sometimes they take as long as the writing itself. I’m going to just use the same one for a while.)

– Any attempt to be on-brand. To maintain the voice, the aesthetic, the theme.

– The expectation that anyone will read this.

///

Welcome to my blog. (What a silly word that is, after all these years!)

This is an experiment. A sandbox. A playground.

I want to play with words and form, with half-baked ideas and boring stories and evolving perspectives. Maybe I’ll quit in a week and go back to hate-reading twitter. Maybe I’ll make something that connects with somebody on the other side of the screen. I guess there’s only one way to find out.

I write because the words want to become pixels and who am I to deny their existence? But it’s kinda fun when somebody else gets to see them too.

If you’re reading this, thank you.

I May As Well Start Here

January 5, 2019 | 3 minute read

micah

I may as well start here.

It’s close enough to the beginning of a new year to start a new thing, or — as in this case — to restart an old thing. Once upon a time (half a decade ago, it sounds longer if you say it that way) I made a casual new years resolution (I never know where to put the apostrophe in new years so I just leave it out) to write on this here website twice a week. That year I had over a million hits on this here website, due mostly to a viral blog post about feminism that would quite likely be considered Problematic nowadays, or at least Woefully Naive.

I want to start writing again. Here.

I’ve started and restarted a few times in the past half-decade. And I’ve written quite a few things of which I am very proud. But as the years have gone past, the twice-a-week habit gradually became twice-a-month, and then not much more than twice a year. Blame the usual culprits: I got busy, blogging died, I started taking anti-depressants.

Mostly though, I stopped writing because I’ve written quite a few things of which I am very proud, and I am frightened to write anything less than almost-perfect.

What if it is off-brand? What if you read it and think “meh”? What if you read it and think I am Problematic, or at least Woefully Naive? What if you don’t read it at all?

“Only publish that which is almost perfect” says my inner critic.

But there are more words inside me that want to become pixels and who am I to deny their existence?

///

A few months ago I sat down in this same yellow chair where I am sitting now (the same one from this story) and started writing in a sketchbook.

Like writing on the internet, writing in a journal is a habit I’ve started many times by now. This time, it stuck. As I’ve filled all those unlined pages with scribbled words, I remembered what it felt to write Just For The Hell Of It, not because I am trying to make a Nearly Perfect Essay.

It felt right.

///

I want to start writing again, here.

And to clear out the rusty old pipes so that the words can flow freely, I’m trying to eliminate anything that aids and abets the voice of doubt. Specifically:

– Functionality that would allow anyone to leave comments here

– Header photos. (Sometimes they take as long as the writing itself. I’m going to just use the same one for a while.)

– Any attempt to be on-brand. To maintain the voice, the aesthetic, the theme.

– The expectation that anyone will read this.

///

Welcome to my blog. (What a silly word that is, after all these years!)

This is an experiment. A sandbox. A playground.

I want to play with words and form, with half-baked ideas and boring stories and evolving perspectives. Maybe I’ll quit in a week and go back to hate-reading twitter. Maybe I’ll make something that connects with somebody on the other side of the screen. I guess there’s only one way to find out.

I write because the words want to become pixels and who am I to deny their existence? But it’s kinda fun when somebody else gets to see them too.

If you’re reading this, thank you.

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