A no-filter day in the Florida Keys. Also, a metaphor.
I’m nervous about this blog.
I had a blog once before. If you’re reading this, maybe you remember it.
I started my first blog on a whim with zero intentions for it to be anything other than a fun hobby. I didn’t know it was possible for a blog to be anything other than a fun hobby. I didn’t even plan on telling anybody about it.
And then I learned there was so. much. more. to blogging. There doesn’t have to be, but it’s out there, and it’s hard not to get caught up in ‘who’s reading?’ and ‘why am I doing this?’ and most importantly, ‘is my writing a trash pile?’
It’s easy not to care what kind of random babble you’re throwing up on a blog that no one knows about. But once people you know and work with and are related to start telling you I read your blog! it becomes a thing. There’s pressure.
I’m nervous about blogging again. I want to do it. I miss having a space to write about anything I want for no reason at all. I miss writing for something other than a paycheck.
But I also know the other side, the side of traffic and numbers and affiliate links and Photoshop. I love that side! It’s a huge part of what I do for a living. But I’m worried that I know too much and it’ll suck the fun right out of it. That’s exactly the opposite of what I want.
I want a place to capture the things I love—the things that aren’t related to work, which I feel is kind of draining the life out of me at this particular season in my life (side note, I’ve always cringed when people describe phases as seasons of life. It’s like when people use the phrase do a deep dive non-ironically, or when Michael Scott hosts diversity training. Cringey. But this season is effing killing me).
I don’t want this blog to become work.
So what will you get here? Who knows. What can I promise you? Nothing.
All I ask is that you don’t judge too harshly, and that if you show up here it’s with full acceptance of the fact that you’re reading something that’s probably never been edited and that more-than-probably was written with a glass of wine in hand.
