The past few days I have been considering my blog and not liking what I see. I have considered myself a writer; that’s why I started it. I have always believed that I had something to say. I wanted my blog to help give me the discipline to write a few times per week and to give me an outlet to speak my heart and mind.
But look at it. I don’t say anything. I still have plenty to say; I have just chosen to not say it. Instead, I have indulged myself by whining about my marriage, playing around with Thursday Thirteen, or some other piece of drivel designed to pander and not offend. Somewhere, I have decided to cater to you guys or to keep it relatively safe when it comes to topics.
Last week, I set two personal pageload records back to back. I just don’t know why. I want to ask you why you keep tuning in, but I don’t want to come off like I am begging for compliments, because I am not. Getting a “this should make him feel better about his blog” comment would do more harm than good, I suspect.
I am a writer, damn it! Yet, my blog won’t back me up on this claim. I know it doesn’t.
I thought my blog would be funnier. I have had at least a half dozen people tell me throughout my life that I was the funniest person they knew. Where is that guy now? Over the years, I have lost some comedic qualities. They surface from time to time (rarely in my blog), but it isn’t like it used to be. I guess real life has tainted me.
It is like I have been a victim of a heinous crime. Some evil syndicate has sent agents to distract me with life while other operatives come and steal my humor, voice, and relevance.
I don’t know what will become of this blog. I am not going to quit, but it will be hard for it to remain the same. It is not like I want a new gimmick or meme (hate that word). Actually, it is quite the opposite. I just want to grow a couple so I will actually say what I want to say.