Quality Over Quantity

You may have noticed that I didn’t post yesterday. You may not have noticed. It’s fine.

You may have noticed that my posts have not been up to snuff lately. I have, and I’m not happy with it.

I posted every day for over two years, but that time is over now. It’s been harder for me to make time to sit down and write a post with my new job and working twice as much as I’m used to working.

I tried using voice-to-text to write some posts on my phone, but my accent’s a little too thick for that, so I spent just as much time editing as I did writing/speaking the post in the first place, which kind of defeats the purpose.

I’m home early from work tonight, due to a lack of business and some schedule-swapping with my arch-nemesis, so I’m letting you know what’s going on around here.

I think a schedule would still be nice to have, even though I’ll post additional stuff whenever and wherever the urge strikes me. So sometimes I may still post every day for weeks at a time, and sometimes it will only be three times a week.

I’m still debating which three days: Monday-Wednesday-Friday? Tuesday-Thursday-Saturday? I’m leaning towards Monday-Wednesday-Friday. And I’d like for those posts to be a minimum of a thousand words.

But we’ll see.

I’m thinking of starting another blog too, which seems counterproductive, but I have things to say that don’t feel like they belong here, so there’s that. I’ll let you know.


From Me to We

I didn’t start this blog to point out the failings in the everyday workings of the world. I didn’t start it hoping for others to even read it. I didn’t start it trying to change anything but how I feel about my own situation.

I just wanted to write about my struggles, physical, emotional, and social, with infertility. I hoped to better understand why I feel the way I feel, and so improve my quality of life. I wanted to get out some of this garbage I carry around in my head every day, and if someone wanted to encourage me, why, that’d be a bonus. I wanted a real safe place, where I can say anything that comes into my head and follow it through to its logical conclusion (I know my logic is seldom conventional, but it works for me.).

I thought that there couldn’t possibly be a place where I could talk about what hurts and why and not be vituperated. I thought if I dared to presume that people could just be nice to each other I would only be disappointed. I know, I know, that’s my innate negativity talking. I managed in food service for years. It’s hard to watch so many people be jerks every day and not get a little cynical.

BUT. I’m proud to be able to freely admit when I’m wrong. I was wrong. There are many people who are suffering like I am and still capable of offering support. The world is not full of meanness and spite. I am not alone. I have found a safe place.

And that is why all my initial intentions have been thrown out the window. There are good people who have been through bad things, and nobody seems to care, and if I can raise my voice about it, I feel obligated to do so. Because for every one person who says, ‘hey, look at me, it hurts when you do that,’ there are dozens who suffer in silence.

I don’t want to be silent anymore. I want to be someone brave enough to say, ‘hey, you! Stop that! It’s not nice!’

I always laughed at the saying ‘one person can make a difference.’ I was wrong about that, too. If one person makes a difference to one person, then they are two. One person can make all the difference, but I am glad I don’t have to be that first person.

I do feel better since I’ve been writing, but I felt even better when more people started reading. And I feel better still knowing that what I or someone like-minded can say could help at least one person stop and really think about what they’re doing, before it’s too late. More would be better, but one’s a start, right?


On Writing

I’ve always loved writing. I’ve got tons and tons of notebooks stashed all over the house, and probably still my mother’s house. I’ve got my full, cover-to-cover, five subject from fifth grade, when we had automatic writing for ten minutes first thing every morning. I’ve got the satirical series of stories I wrote for my seventh grade gifted class. I’ve got rough drafts from the summer expository writing class I took at fifteen. Of course, I’ve got the years I spent on LiveJournal preserved for posterity on the interwebs. I even wrote a few entries on MySpace when nobody cared about the lj anymore.

You know, it’s funny. I never used the notes on Facebook when everyone moved there, and that was really when things went from bad to worse. Maybe if I’d kept writing things would have turned out differently. Maybe I just would have handled everything better with an outlet that didn’t judge my situation and my decisions. This is a complete revelation to me. I truly never considered the coincidence of not writing and bad times.

I will make an honest vow, right this instant. You can help hold me to it if you will, but I think I got this one.

I will never stop writing again.

I don’t know if I have ever made a promise to myself that’s so common sensical. I don’t even know why I should have to make it at all, why I ever stopped writing. I understand that writing will not stop the walls from falling down on me if something truly disastrous occurs, but with this realization has come superstition. Writing has become my magic charm to ward off the evil spirits. That can’t be a bad thing, can it?

And here I am today. I only started this blog a few weeks ago, but I kept a journal with my online support group from April to August. I was horribly out of practice at first, churning out stilted prose that I’m sure I would have scorned at six years old. But it’s all coming back, the flavor of the words, the flow of sentences and paragraphs, because I never lost my love of the written word, just familiarity with my own written words.

My mother once said to let her die when she couldn’t eat anymore, because what’s the point in going on if you can’t even enjoy a good meal. Let me go when words don’t mean anything to me anymore.

What does writing mean to you?