I have always been involved in creative endeavors. I write, make art, and do photography. Lately, I have been exploring sound through drumming and strumming. And cooking– now THAT’s creative if you consider some of the dishes I make.
It is in writing that I find the most enjoyment and satisfaction– mainly because I can be the most precise in my expression. Like a lot of writers, I have had fantastic notions of being another Barbara Kingsolver or Geraldine Brooks, and every now-and-then I dust off “The Novel” and try working on it. Sometimes I go smaller and work on short fiction stories. These are few and far between. What I mostly write are blog posts. Non-fiction. Essays. Sometimes just a few paragraphs of life observations, sometimes with a moral application. Much of it is just musing. Sometimes I whine, moan, and complain; mostly, I’m having fun with words.
And that’s the ticket: I enjoy myself when I blog. I am satisfied with my writing when I do. And from what I can tell, some folks actually read my blogs and enjoy them too. I love it. This is the writing expression to which I resonate the most. I accept the fact that I will probably never make a living writing. I am a blogger. I accept that with joy.
There is a certain amount of disdain of bloggers by other kinds of writers. Bloggers are the blue-collars among the starched writing elites. To some, we’re not really writers at all I guess this notion comes from the fact that it is so easy for anyone to set up a blog and publish. The hoi polloi have dared to express themselves. The democratization of writing. “Oh dear!” the elites cry as they clutch their pearls.
I look at this way: high-brow literary fiction is to blogging what Olympic swimming is to splashing around in a Doughboy pool at a backyard barbecue.
Which would I’d rather be doing, do you think? Yeah, you got it.