Another scattered week. Another week of wanting to post and not knowing what to say. I'm grateful that I'm having a hard time writing because I'm happy and busy, instead of because I'm stressed out and sad, but I still want to be writing more. I have a dorky personal goal to post more than 200 times this year, but I want them to be 200 good posts instead of crappy ones. I don't want to write for the sake of a number; I just want to write more.
I put in a link menu to past posts I particularly like this week, and finding those links required me to at least skim through all or most of my archives. It was... interesting. I didn't start at the very beginning, but that's partially because I'm secretly a narcissist and I've read those before--er, several times, I think--in a fit of "what did I sound like in 2003"-ness. (Check out, for example, my first oh-so-optimistic post.) One thing I noticed right away was that my old posts are almost all significantly shorter than what I write now, and most are more about what I was doing than what was outside myself. (There are also an irritatingly large number of posts that go something like this: Wow, I read this awesome book, but I'm not going to give you any juicy quotes or tell you what it's about or anything useful! Ugh.) I had a hard-ish time finding things I liked, that were memorable, from before this year and maybe last year. There are a few exceptions (I particularly like the entry about Audre Lorde and her take on bdsm. Hint: we disagree!), but most of the earlier links are to poems I love, or short movie reviews, or similar things.
I like that my posting style has changed. Interestingly, I think that the reason partially relates back to a blog post I didn't link to (but oh boy, one I get a pretty fair amount of statcounter hits for) which is partially about being able to move outside of yourself when times are good. For most of the time I've had this blog I've been horribly overworked, or incredibly (probably clinically, at times) depressed, or fighting for some sort of stability that I was lacking. I was struggling so hard just to keep moving, to stay alive and on my feet, and I can tell that when I look back at all my entries about nothing much important. Now, when I'm finally happy and finding some sort of balance, I have the time and energy and desire to write about things that matter to me, that take me outside of me. It's a strange form of narcissism that makes you want to show others the things that make you joyful. Maybe that's not the right word anymore.