Gratitude about writing

It is miraculous really. I have been blogging consistently for nine years. In January I will be entering my tenth year. I went from many posts a day, to a few a week, and now I barely write two or three a month. Many blogger friends have disappeared. Social media expanded, and other forms of communication have become more appealing. Facebook has been fun for me, I must admit. Connecting to old friends, reconnecting with newer ones. Discovering ways to be in touch that I would never have imagined only ten years ago. 

These days so few people read my blog. I have not tried to make it more popular by using all the different universal "feeds" that would help it become more widely read. Or, perhaps, I don't write about exciting, trendy enough topics. I have used the blog for improving my writing, as well as trying to explore how I came to be me - as a supplement to therapy and research for writing my other books. Just as I have done from time to time over the years, lately, I think about whether to keep the blog going. 

I wonder, is self enjoyment enough of a reason to keep on blogging as I do? For, I have learned that serving others is of utmost importance. And so, if the blog is not being of service to others, why continue? That could be one reason that makes me think of stopping. Then there is the idea that family members read my blog to make sure I am not saying anything they don't like. And if I do, they become hurt or angry, and even stop talking to me altogether. That has been quite a deterrent to authentic writing over the years. I even thought about changing the name, or going underground, but, thanks to friends and supporters, I soon dropped those ideas.

I love how Annie Lamott says: 

You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.

To Ms. Lamott, I reply - easier said than done. Telling my story has been the hardest thing - when others became so hurt by it. For, I tell it so that others can feel free to explore their own. Or, at times I tell it to help others get to know me better. In the end, though, I probably tell my story mostly so that I can get to know me better. And writing it down seems to be a really good way for me to express myself. I wish I could have been a painter or dancer. But, writing is the medium that I feel most comfortable doing.

So, this morning, on the eve of Thanksgiving, and after much reflection these past months, that lead me up to this blog post, I am grateful for my blog, whether other people read it or not, or family members like it or me or not. I give thanks that I have a place to go to express myself for all the reasons mentioned above. Most recently, I discovered that life is short - shorter than I ever imagined, and I am grateful in an awesome way for each moment that feels good. 

And, if writing about my life is good for and to me - and good for others, who stop by to genuinely share it with me ... then ... onward and upward ... and into this new day.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Busy, busy, busy

Comments

[Tamarika]

Hello there, Elaine. Thanks so much for still reading my blog after all these years! And thank you for this comment. I appreciate you very much.

[Elaine of Kalilily]

Like you, I don't blog as much as I used to when I started 13 years ago. Unlike you, I prefer to write about the tough stuff and have caused family feuds in the past as a result. Writing continues to be 90% of my personal therapy. I still read your blog, after all these years!!

[Tamarika]

Dear friend,
I appreciate your comment, and understanding very much.

Sending love your way,
Tamar

[Marion Barnett]

It is very difficult to be "honest in your writing" without wondering how people will react. I think writing is about peeling the onion and exposing our inner layers for the purpose of learning more about ourselves. If people feel it is directed toward them that is a misinterpretation and doesn't honor the other person who is exploring their personal experiences and feelings.