My name is Weatherly and this is the fourteenth blog I’ve started. Ok, that’s a bit overdramatic. Maybe it’s the twelfth. But seriously- there have been a lot.
There was the book blog, where I was sure I was going to be picked up by a publisher to do witty but honest and cutting book reviews for all of the hippest (and/or most pretentious) titles. I thought I would read a book a week- psh, a book a DAY. And then I would make droll comments like, “You read Jodi Picoult? I thought about reading that… but War and Peace just seemed so much more enteretaining. Call me when you’re more intellectual, dear.”(Confession: I have not read Jodi Picoult. I have started reading War and Peace. It was, actually, pretty entertaining. Until I looked and saw that I had been reading for days and was still in the first quarter of the book. So… yeah. That’s unfinished, too.)
And then there was the fashion blog, one for the ages. A blog that embodied the je ne sai quoi that I thought a rather poor undergrad with only enough inspiration to be cute a couple of times a week had to offer. That failed almost before it started. Although I did get a few awkward full-body shots of my Target and thrift store chic wardrobe before it went belly-up.
The thrifting blog, a blog that actually only existed in my head but was, in any case, a VERY IMPORTANT MATTER until I stopped caring was stupposed to be a catalogue of my secondhand and thrift store finds and how I, with seemingly infinite skill and charming genius, styled them in my home (cough, dorm) or reinvented them into something extraordinary. Long story short: I don’t really have the money to shop and I quickly ran out of space for all of my “treasures”.
The problem is, I just can’t seem to stick with blogging. Just like I can’t seem to stick with one major, and I can’t seem to stick with one job or one hobby.
The one thing I can stick with (besides, I suppose I must say, my boyfriend who I love and who may have a panic attack if he sees this flighty confession. Hey lj. Chill out, dude), is writing. Or should I say, the wanting-to-be-a-writer part of writing. The actual writing part? Yeah, can’t stick with that either.But I’m going to be 20 soon.
This statement scares the bejesus out of me. I know, I know, it’s supposed to be 30 when you realize you haven’t done anything with your life, you’re a huge failure, are you always going to be stuck at this job where people wear Hawaiian print from souvenir shops on casual Friday? Etc. However… I always hoped, well– assumed, really– that I would be published by now. That I would be a person who has her stuffins together. That I would, you know, be somebody. And I’m not. I’m not any of those things. And I’m scared. I’m scared that this same realization will wake me up in the middle of the night when I’m 30, 40, 50, 90, and I’ll end up making plans, sowing hopes and coming up with a whole lot of nothing for my troubles.
So I want to do something.It’s not much. I’m not going to save the human race, or cure cancer (probably), or establish a wildlife rescue fund for neglected and disgruntled hairless cats. But I will try to work around this funk that I’m in. I will try to be someone, if only a “someone who blogs every day”. I want something to look forward to, something to accomplish. …And I want a pony.but mostly all that other stuff.So I’ll blog every day. Maybe that will help, maybe it won’t. The only way to know is to try, I think, and even if I didn’t think that, I’m going to say I do, just in case it’s true. ha
So, I am off to accomplish my very first goal:Find my car keys.Man, the excitement level in here is too much already.
Wish me luck,