Why a Blog

Why a Blog

By M.K. French

Blogging vs. Blehhhh…ging (insert heaving noise here)

It seems like it’s in vogue to be in a confessional mode these days. Some confessions seem to be kind of important. Take for example Angelina Jolie’s recent decision to have a double mastectomy (maybe somewhat instructional, if not a tad paranoid). You gotta admit, for a lady minus her “girls,” she’s got some balls (not to mention a great excuse to get some new, bigger, better ones—breasts, that is).

Some, like the decision to have any number of random things for dinner, (ala Facebook Status realm), almost seem involuntary, like vomit.  So I, too, feel compelled to confess and possibly even to justify my reason for starting a blog, because, let’s face it, there’s a lot of mental vomit being spewed all over us these days via a constant stream of media bombardment.  Sometimes it’s hard to navigate everybody’s spewing.

Do you remember in elementary school when it was the worst thing in the world to vomit in front of everyone? It was so mortifying for the janitor to have to come in and throw that weird sawdust stuff on it. If you’ll indulge my metaphor, imagine if everyone in the classroom was vomiting at the same time? It’d be pretty hard not to get some puke on you.  I guess it’s always been my fear that I might be that kid, vomiting out my thoughts and getting it on the poor person next to me. Making them endure the horrors of my humiliation.

And before you think I’m getting too high on the horse, please know that I fully recognize that I am probably doing exactly that, thus all the excuses that have, heretofore, prevented me from starting one, including a double helping of #1) the fear of how people will react to it (eewwww…Mrs. Bradshaw...Mary-Kate just puked!) and #2) the guilt for subjecting anyone else to it. (Suzy, I’m so sorry you had to see my half-digested Spaghettios, I think to myself as I’m being escorted from the room, head hung in shame).

And then I turned 35 (last year) and I realized, that if I live the average life span for someone born in “my generation,” my life is, for all intents and purposes, half way over, and I haven’t become the writer that I have always aspired to be (if you’re still with me in a minute, see also “History,” below). It then occurred to me how derailed that logic train was, because we never know when we’re going to die, so if I died in a week, really right now in this moment my life is actually 99% over.  As if my existential meanderings weren’t depressing enough, that just made it seem all the more urgent that I write.

It also occurred to me that such repetitive references to vomit in a person’s first blog post might be off-putting. If you’re still reading this, you’re either a really good friend of mine (thanks Nancy McDonald, for still reading this, and also for suggesting I blog), or exactly the kind of person who might like my blog (yay!), or both. In either case, I’m almost done talking about vomiting and we can move on to the rest of my self-indulgent, angsty-struggling-writer-shtick, and also the rest of my content, some of which will be about me, some of which will be about the interesting people I know, all in the context of our reality in rural America, our “rurality.”

More worries, and Blogging vs. Blahging

It also seems a little hypocritical for an English teacher to encourage her students to pour themselves out and then only be willing to do it privately herself, so, you know, there’s THAT. And P.S.: contrary to popular belief, English teachers don’t know everything, (nor do any other teachers for that matter). I’m going to be taking some liberties with my grammar.  You might find a fragment or two. Like this. Or this. I might make up words, like “blahging.” I’ll just put this out there: I’m an e.e. cummings fan. Sue me. It’s called style, people. I’m aware of the rules, and I allow my students the same flexibility in appropriate, non-academic genres…(like this) so there. Pthhhhh! (How’s that for an onomatopoeia?)

Here’s another one that’s not all that irrational: what if whatever I have to say is just plain boring? Well, the beautiful thing about this digital age we’re living in is that there’s a little white x in a little red box up and to your right, and you can click it at any time, and nobody’s feelings have to get hurt, least of all mine. It’s like inviting people over to your house instead of going to theirs. If you’re doing something in your own house that offends or bores them, they can leave if they don’t like it (even though I hope you don’t want to. Come in, take your shoes off, stay awhile. Heck, come every day).

History

I was a weird kid, probably not inordinately weird, because I know a lot of people who claim they were also weird kids, and I feel a special kinship with them. I read voraciously, starting at age 4. This isn’t that really in itself strange unless you consider the fact two of my favorite stories by age 7 were The Black Cat and The Tell-Tale Heart, by Edgar Allen Poe. If you haven’t read these, I won’t spoil them, but I will tell you that both involve homicide.

My best childhood friend Sarah claims that I taught her how to read not long after I learned, though I think she shares my talent for exaggeration (I may have showed off a few of my Dick-and-Jane acquired words, while forcing her to “play” school with me, which she then demonstrated after observing the same words on a few household products, like a bag of Dog Chow or something. But obviously I had a teaching bent from an early age). As a stereotypically chubby kid with allergies, I developed an aversion to the outdoors and physical exertion (something else I’m struggling to overcome, but that’s another blog). Consequently, I read a lot, and developed a deep love of words which I wanted to share with others. I began writing little stories and poems, some of which, if I can dig up, might even find their way here.

And then came roughly 3 decades of excuses and half-heartedness. For anyone else reading this who pursues an art of any kind, I think you can identify. If you want to read a conversation I had with myself about 5 years ago, see my piece, DiaMonologue. You’ll see the disturbing influence of Poe.

Anyway, that’s all over now.  My blog was finally born; I’m spanking it on its little butt and sending it out into the world. While I can’t promise you that I’ll never metaphorically puke again, I promise that I’ll do my best to give my words away, (see also, my poem To Give Away) and if you can find anything amusing or useful in there, I’ll be humbled. If you find fodder for criticism, I now welcome it. I think I’ve worked that all out. Thanks for coming along with me while I did it.

Bring on the sawdust!