the sloppy copy

Once upon a time there was a girl a woman who lived to write. sometimes she wrote poems, sometimes she wrote stories, sometimes she wrote long descriptions of imaginary people doing imaginary things. Sometimes she just wrote – the physical act of writing. Words. Lists. Names of imaginary people. she wrote thank you notes and just-saying-hello notes and birthday cards and silly messages on dry erase boards and scraps of paper and Post-it notes. She was never far from pen and paper.

as she got older and technology evolved and her access to said technology increased, her formerly written words became typed words. She wrote emails, message board posts, long-winded AIM profiles; she type, type, typed to her heart’s content.

She also blogged. She started some and ended some, but one day she started one that she didn’t end. It became a treasure trove of her random musings, daily observations, stories and anecdotes – both real and fiction. while she certainly wasn’t well-followed, several of her close friends were kind enough to read it and offer comment. Adding a portion of her writing to this blog slowly became part of who she was and how she identified herself.

One day, she stopped. At first, she told herself it was because she wanted to take a break, figure out how she wanted to proceed, organize her thoughts just a little more to make the whole thing more palatable to others. She had ideas of how she could intentionally create a following. But none of this ever happened.

A year went by. Still: radio silence. Nothing new was posted. Hardly anything was even written during that time. Almost two years went by. Not writing became as strong a habit as writing had been.

Gradually though, she began to miss all of the writing. The ideas backed up in her brain and begged to be let loose. Some days she almost couldn’t concentrate – the ideas would flow past her regular, daily thoughts and sweep them away until all she could do was close her eyes and see a story though.

The writing began again. first, in spurts. then, in more organized chunks. She rediscovered how damn much she loved writing and blogging in the first place. She slowly let go of some of the insecurities that had caused her to stop blogging – did it matter that her content didn’t have a theme? did it matter that there was no organized schedule of posts? No.

What mattered is that it made her happy. It was something that she managed to forget how much she enjoyed. It even brought her peace, sometimes. And she was rediscovering all that she had been missing, for almost two years. With glee she cried out:

I’M BACK, BITCHES.