Yes, my title is a weird play on Alanis Morissette’s 1998 album, Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie. Don’t ask, it just came to me.
Sometimes random or clever titles actually scream out to me when I’m writing a blog post, but I’m clear on the pointlessness of cute titles when it comes to SEO, and Pinning, and sharing — which brings me to the point.
I totally miss just giving my blog posts titles that look and sound pretty. I miss writing posts that read like journal entries. I miss writing haphazardly, minus capitalization and punctuation in some cases.
I miss writing and connecting with the eyes and experiences and hearts of the people who come here to read my blog, you know, the one or two or twenty of you who actually have some interest in what I have to say.
Honestly, I feel a little vulnerable for wondering if I still have readers like that, and I hate how much the business of blogging has clouded the original goal here.
Most of the time I feel okay about the mix of content on my blog. I go through these gnawing phases where I feel like I’m going too far, and then I remind myself that I’ve been really, really lucky to turn something I love into something that can also help me pay the bills. The income I generate via my blog is impactful for my family—period.
I can’t help but feel, though, that I can have it both ways. I can do something here that is meaningful for me as a person who is really driven to write and create, and also collaborate with brands in a way that is still true to who I am.
Blogging has changed so much since I first started writing for an audience when I was 16. I started my first online journal in 1996, and boy, was it awful. It was melodramatic and self-indulgent… wait. You know, it really wasn’t too far off from what I’m doing now.
I went through a long period of exhaustion after having my kids. I didn’t have the energy to focus on my internal life. I didn’t read, I didn’t write (to speak of), and I didn’t make art. When I became a mom, I found new ways to experience beauty. I experienced it every time I looked into the eyes of my children.
I’m getting back to the old me in some ways. I want to take photos again, I want to write, I’m rediscovering the feeling of being lost in a great novel. It feels good.
Writing this post feels good, too. I miss the speed and catharsis of just hammering out a personal post. I’m not going back, and I’m not editing or revising. This post is sappy, and sloppy, and should probably live on the pages of a paper journal, tucked away in some drawer. Probably.
I am making it a personal goal to write more, and to write more honestly. Are you with me?