ceci n’est pas une blog
This isn’t one of those posts about not posting, except that it kind of is.
A couple of nights ago, Anne and I were sitting on the couch, Seamus between us, watching Modern Family. A fire in our fireplace warmed our living room, and both of our cats, who were stretched out in front of it.
Modern Family is one of my favorite shows on television, because it brilliantly fills a hole left by the Simpsons, when it stopped being about characters and started being about guest stars and whacky shenanigans: it’s a terrifically funny look at a family trying to be a family while their life happens around them. More often than not, it cleverly weaves together seemingly unrelated stories into a satisfying ending, and the writing is consistently clever and unexpected.
During a commercial, I thought about my kids, and my family. Ryan’s 25 and Nolan’s 23. We see them at least once a week for family dinner, but usually more than that. We’re a close family, we love each other very much, and every moment we spend together makes me so proud of all of us, because we struggled and suffered a lot for years at the petty and vindictive hands of their biological father. That we have anything at all is pretty remarkable, considering how relentlessly he tried to destroy our ability to be a family, and that we have something so special and rare makes all the suffering and struggling worth enduring, because here we are today, Team Wheaton.
I said this wasn’t one of those posts about not posting, except that it kind of is. During that commercial, as I thought about Ryan and Nolan and our lives together, I noticed that I don’t write about us as much as I used to, which means that I don’t write in my blog as much as I used to. More often than not, when one or both of them is over, I can take a picture and post it to Twitter, and it tells an entire story that would have once been saved for a blog post. Yes, I could still do that, and add the picture to the post, but that’s not the way we do things these days, and it feels like most people don’t read or comment on blogs, anyway.
So this isn’t a post about not posting, except that it is. It’s a post that reiterates, for me as much as anyone, that I need to write, because it’s doing the right thing, even when I feel like I don’t have anything to write about.
Runners run, even if they’re not in a race, and they run every day, so they’re ready for the race when they find themselves at the starting line.
Sometimes a nice jog, for the sake of jogging, can be a worthwhile thing. In fact, it’s worthwhile more often than not.
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I can push the little "like" button, which will show you that I appreciated your post, but I should also leave a comment about *why* I appreciated your post.
Your writing, especially when you're getting Deep, is beautiful and heartwarming and touching. Even when you're writing about being a total fanboy running in to Henry Rollins, I laughed and thought, "Oh my God! Other people feel the same way I do [not necessarily about Henry Rollins, but whichever celebrity]! I'm not alone in my uncoolness/awkwardness/love of someone famous!" But even writing about running in to Henry Rollins, you write so beautifully and touchingly! It makes me feel like... like I'm not alone, like I'm not the only one who loses all their cool (or what little I have) when I meet someone I admire, like even celebrities are normal people, like Wil Wheaton is a beautiful person I like to read about.
Once upon a time, I wanted to be a writer. At some point in life (sometime in or around high school), I decided I couldn't be one. I don't know why. Because I thought it required too much work? Because I thought I wasn't any good? Because someone told me I wasn't any good? I don't know why, but I just stopped wanting to be a Writer When I Grow Up.
But I still liked to write, so years ago, I started a blog. I was going to write every day. Then I stopped. I don't know why. Because I thought I wasn't any good? Because I didn't have anything good to say? I don't know why, but I just stopped.
But I *still* liked to write, so I started a new blog a few years later, this time less about me personally, and more about a specific topic. Then I stopped, and this time I know why: because I felt like I didn't have anything good to say. There are plenty of blogs with way better writers, and even blogs about the same topic with way better writers, so why would anyone read my blog?
But like you say, a runner runs, even if not in a race. I am a Writer, whether I'm published or not. Just like I'm a dancer, just because I feel the beat in my soul, I'm a Writer, just because I like putting pencil to paper (or fingers to keyboard) and describing the way I feel or the things I see or the world I encounter. I may not be published, but I'm a Writer. I need to stop listening to the demons that tell me I'm not good enough to write -- and honestly, it's nice to read a blog post by Wil Wheaton that says he needs to remind himself to write, and it's nice to read blog posts by Wil Wheaton that talk about his own demons, because it reminds me that I'm not alone.
And now I'm rambling, so thank you for the moment of catharsis. Thank you for your beautiful blog and for baring your soul to all of us.