But that's not what this post is about. I was thinking earlier today about what I would write, seeing as my day was remarkably similar to yesterday's. Which got me thinking, this isn't a diary or a new report. Which got me thinking, what is it?
A lot of people have a blog for a specific thing: their thoughts on food or make-up or home design or parenting or basket-weaving or Benedict Cumberbatch. But this... I don't have a specific plan for this blog of mine, other than to give me more drive, more accountability, more feedback for my writing--whether that ends up being driven by my spirituality, my given emotional state, a triggered childhood memory, or, say, Benedict Cumberbatch.
I'm caught by this, even as I write it out, because in some things I am a finite kind of girl--I like the precision that numbers and organization brings to things, and glancing at the stats of this blog, 107 posts in 39 months isn't impressive to me. Less impressive still is that it hasn't been all upward trajectory, each month with more posts than the last. I'm quick to discredit myself further--how many of those posts were forced, between Slice of Life and Essay a Day and now NaBloPoMo?
But the philosophy speaks louder than the geography once again. No craftwork, nothing that deals in creativity and polishing, can be added together in a spreadsheet. I do more, I do better, because of this little landing page out there in the interwebs. and whether ten thousand people read it or just me (and I do--more than I'd care to share) I will do more and better still. Not in a perfect positive curve, but in the fits and breaks and re-starts that have always characterized my writing, and my anything-else-good.
Closing note: I'm not really an R&J fan--it's the teen rom-com of Shakespearean tragedies--but you can't stop the poetry...
O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name;
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,
And for that name which is no part of thee
Take all myself.
I take thee at thy word.
Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized;
Henceforth I never will be Romeo.