On blogging.

You know what? Blogging is work. I mean, it's work, like. . .in a good way. But still. It requires a level of commitment that is tough sometimes.

My blog has become a good friend. A loyal one, too, that patiently waits for me to finish my thoughts and complete my sentences. She doesn't limit me to certain word counts nor does it offend her when I drop the occasional F-bomb.

Nope.

But again. Like any really meaningful relationship, it calls for some sacrifice. And that's hard when other parts of your life call for it, too.

Over the last six months or so, my life got even busier than it had been before. I began tinkering with writing a book along with a lot of other stuff in my professional and personal lives that have called for more of my time. So I'd start blog posts and leave them sitting like half eaten sandwiches in elementary school lunch boxes. Perfectly good to eat but, after a while, overshadowed by something else on the menu.

Yup.

Per the stats, the readership went down. Significantly from what the counters showed me and, at first, I felt guilty about it. I would worry that I needed to write something but would argue with myself that I'd promised never to fold this into the list of life's burdensome demands. So yeah. With larger spaces between posts, the numbers crept down more. And here lately I'm realizing that ,for the most part, it has to be cool. Not cool as in "I  don't care" but cool because it's just the way of this kind of world and a nice little reminder that writing has to come from a genuine, courageous and honest place. Not one that's forced or that clamors for comments or hits on a post.

Wait. I take that back. For those who blog for a living, they should consider that. But since I don't, I suppose it's good for grounding me a bit, you know? And as I think of it, that probably happens to a lot of bloggers who've been at this longer than me. And so. I've been pondering all of that. And I feel myself plugging back in to the reason I first felt so hungry to write here in the first place.

The other day I refreshed my stats and comments page before going to bed and saw a sagging three-digit number of hits for a twenty four hour period. And zero comments. Then I thought of some of my favorite blogs over the years and how they started to dwindle at some point. I checked in several times in a row and saw no activity and eventually just stopped checking. Just maybe, they exist somewhere again but since I no longer look, I don't know it.

Yeah.

I also recall how much time I've spent savoring the delicious words of so many of my fellow bloggers and how they'd become real, true friends, albeit virtual ones. On a lot of the days where I just can't finish out my whole thoughts into my own blog, I silently savor theirs. But when life gets really busy, even that is hard. So I lose my grasp on that part of the "blog world" as well.

Yep.

I guess I'm just rambling about this because blogging is such an interesting reality. It's communal yet lonely at the same time. It's like talking to a bunch of friends and babbling in a corner by yourself simultaneously. Which evokes an equally pendulous set of emotions if you engage in it. I do think it's much realer than a lot of other forms of social media and, though more time consuming, a lot more rewarding.

For me, at least. On most days, that is.

So despite the complexities, I am feeling very grateful tonight. To this platform and to any person who has even read here a single time. Because all of it--the collective--has saved my life over and over and over again. It has helped me to remove many masks and pull the covers back on the me that hides from even myself. It has given me solace during my darkest days and a midnight canvas for bursting fireworks in vivid colors with each triumph. I've found refuge here when insecure, bored, afraid, confused, and conflicted. And on those days that started out with me flying on one gimpy wing, I turned to this, the written word, and found myself lifted high into the clouds on a brand new pair.

And soar, I do.

And so. Today I regroup. I return to my blog as a steadfast friend. . . just as I have since 2009. The one who forgives my imperfections and inconsistency. The one who was easy to fall in love with because of her paucity of rules and regulations and her gentle nudges to live a life filled with more intention and authenticity.

So I will write. No matter what. When I can. How I can. So I can.

But especially so I can read it.

Yeah.

***
Happy Monday.

Blogatrophy and BFFs

Warning: Late-night, non-spellchecked rambling ahead. 

atrophy:  partial or complete wasting away of a muscle or part of the body.

When I first started this blog, I wondered a few things. Like, would I consistently have anything to talk about? Would I stay with it? Would anyone other than the students in my small group, my sisters, and my parents even read it? And--the main one--would my words and intentions some how come out wrong?

I am just about one week shy of my second anniversary of starting this blog.  Honestly? I cannot believe that I've stayed with it so consistently for so long. I mean. . . it's not like I don't stick with things that I start. It's just that writing a blog takes time. If your heart gets into it, which mine absolutely has, you become very particular about its vision and how that translates into the finished product. You learn new tricks and find ways to spruce things up a bit. You go to other blogs and realize how non-schmancy yours is and how few readers you have or things like the fact that you don't blog anonymously and they do.  It's a funny little world, the blogging world.

You make "friends" with folks and share a little pieces of your world with them. Some of these virtual bffs (blog-friends-forever) follow the course of a lot of friendships.  You know. . . . the ones where it seems like, OMG, you have everything in common and you, like, hang out every single day.  Then one day someone says something that lightweight offends the other or they get too comfortable. Someone takes off their shoes and, SHUT UP, their feet stink or somehow some way the discovery is made that those same stinky feet are made of clay. One of you realizes that your friendship involves zero reciprocity and here you are doing all the visiting and sharing when the other has only been to your place like once.

Or it's not that deep. Maybe one bff gets busy or simply has new interests. Your bff used to have mornings open to chill with you over coffee, but now that they had-the-baby, moved-away, got-the-new-job, got-the-new-love, gave-up-electronics, started-a-new-exercise-program, got-in-med-school, finished-med-school. . . . whew. . . there just isn't time any more. See, like real friends, they love you, yes, and will surely text you on your birthday . . . . but as far has LOLing with you all the time, it's here and there.

Eventually life happens and it becomes there more than here.

Some of those bffs don't leave. They roll with the punches and evolve with your evolution and tell people behind your back that you are totally awesome.  They are loyal and consistent, even if they don't bring you flowers (read: comments) on a daily basis, but they are the ones that have you prominently perched in their favorites. In fact, some of them are so low key that you don't even know they have your back until you say or do something particularly vulnerable that makes them remove the invisible cloak for just a moment . . .only to slip back into the google-reader shadows.

It's kind of interesting.

I'm rambling about this because a lot of folks who read blogs don't actually blog. Those who do blog, get this. And those who don't, now you will, too.

Anyways.

Today I was looking at my entries and looking at my blog and asking myself questions. Almost like I was interviewing myself. This kind of blog introspection usually comes at certain points. . . like. . . when you notice that you've lost a follower or two. Or you post what feels like something that everybody and their mama should be high-fiving and relating to you on, but for whatever reason, they don't. It also happens when you check your blog stats and notice that the traffic has lightened up. . . or that your traffic is all from the same Google search that seems to yield one of your images.

Or.

You are feeling blogatrophy. Where you feel like your blogging muscle needs the P90X (or something to make you hotter.)

I've felt all of the aforementioned before. That tiny sting when that public follower clicks "stop following," the happy affirmation nestled inside of a comment, the let down of realizing your traffic is coming from something other than. . . well, you. As a matter of fact, I've felt all of this in the past week.

And so. What generally happens when I am in this place is this:

First, I second-guess everything.  Like. . . not enough medicine stuff?  Too family-oriented? Too spiritual for my agnostic readers? Not spiritual enough for my fellow believers? Too relaxed and non-straightlaced for those who link over from places like ACP Hospitalist or Internist? Too heavy for the ones who linked over from lighter URLs? Too tear-jerky or too preachy? Too goofy or too silly?

Finally, I get myself so wound up that I end with this: Why are you even doing this? Like, who do you think you are? And, like, why is this even important? Really, why are you even doing this?  Like, for real. . . why?

Then, I remember the words of Toni Morrison when she was asked why she wrote her first novel, The Bluest Eye:  

"So I could read it."

I wrote a whole post about this once and today I had to revisit it. I needed to chuck myself under my own chin and  remind myself that every single story helps me to grow and to walk in my purpose. And just maybe, it helps someone else to do the same. Or maybe not. But either way, it gives me a special place to honor my patients and my family and just life in general. Kind of like it let's me live my life like it's golden,  you know? I love the idea of giving someone else the chance to learn the lessons I'm learning and for us to talk about it and think about it together. But again, I write the things I need to read. . . the messages I need to hear. . . sometimes that day, but many times later. I'm sure no one reads this thing more than me.

Thank you for coming, going, staying, and leaving. Thank you for following, just-googling, commenting, lurking, de-lurking, laughing, crying, or whatever it is you do.  Because it's been enough. Enough to push me to keep at it for almost two whole years. To "go hard" (as Harry calls it) and to keep writing here for you to read, too. . . instead of into a Word document only or a spiral notebook on my nightstand.

So yeah.  Thanks.  I mean that, too.

That's all I got today.

***
Happy Monday.