I’ve always wondered how people who call themselves bloggers maintain their ability to write and get excited about their daily lives at such a constant rate. It seems such a chore to talk about your life as if you were dressed by little bluebirds every day or as if you always had an opinion on everything.
Taking endless streams of photos of your own life that you’ll have to upload everyday? I admire the discipline, but I’d never be comfortable with that.
Especially if the thought was to present myself a certain way to quench someone else’s curiosity with a pretty picture of my life. Too tiring.
But then I remember that it is considered a job for those people, and if that were my job, I think I’d probably kick ass at it with my own endless stream of photos and chirpiness and opinions. What a way to live.
It’s a romantic thought to read the diaries that were never really meant for anyone else to read though. I started reading Sylvia Plath’s unabridged journal a few years ago and it made me dive right down into a deep depression that I had to pull myself out of by stopping. An ‘irresistable fascination’ is what Maria Popova calls it and I can relate.
Let’s try to write for ourselves this year. And maybe about the regular day-to-day things instead of just the ones that make me feel introspective and reflective!