Crippling self-doubt. Shouts into the void. Opening tabs and shutting them again. Stressful Netflix binge.
Day one of a blogger who hates the term “blogger.”
What could I write about? What would anyone read? I am just another college grad pouring money into a site. I take photos on an iPhone and a Nikon point-and-shoot, using a free editing software. My day job is a teaching assistant at a school of music in Ohio, 800 miles from home. I buy my clothes second-hand and they’re promptly coated in cat hair once I take them home. I think going to bars alone is fun and I love classic films or horrible B-movies; otherwise, television is a waste. I’m addicted to Instagram. What could I write about? Who would read it?
This is the box all artist movies strive to break. I can’t cater to one interest because I don’t have just one; I can’t separate any from the others. My practice schedule dictates my fashion choices, and my coffee taste is influenced by whatever performance I’ve just seen: Nothing is independent.
The relationships between these things are what I want to explore, because nothing is compartmentalized and none of us are unbiased. I wanted an outlet that is the middle section of a giant Venn diagram, so I created one. I’m not sure who else will find this.
This is day one, in a simplified retelling.
I’m not here for readers, though I know they exist—I can’t be the only one reading personal blogs regardless of subject matter. I am here for a shelf on which to put these things. I’m not sure what it will look like in the end. I hold in my pocket the right to change this blog as I need. It will fill the shape of its container and move into whatever I can carry. I give it the right to remain fluid.
Thanks for the option.