It’s been years since I was blogging every day. When I was unemployed, I kept myself active by finding adventures to go on in my neighborhood, taking photos, and writing about whatever I wanted. Those days were some of the best days of my life. I felt sharp. I wrote all the time, every day, and even if what I had to say was insignificant, I still said it without embarrassment fear of judgment.

I felt free, and since I had little else to do I just did what I wanted. If I wanted to talk about a scary dream I had, I blogged about it. If I had an idea for a cool Halloween costume that I had no intention of putting together, I blogged about. I blogged about my day. I blogged about my cat. I blogged about my outfits. I blogged about my neighbor’s lawn gnomes. I blogged about things that annoyed me. And people read my blogs.

Before I was collecting my poetry and writings into documents to be published by indie presses, I was blogging and making zines. I didn’t know anyone in the lit world, and the people who were reading my blog posts were either finding them by searching on google and seeing links to my blog come up in keyword searches or they were fellow bloggers whose blog posts I read and commented on who were reading my blog in an act of community. It was simpler times.

I stopped blogging because I was trying to take my writing more seriously. I started getting my writing published by more established venues. In retrospect, my blog was pretty silly, maybe even cringey at times. I was just blogging my feelings, but in time I ended up deactivating my blog to prevent a larger audience from knowing about my feelings.

Now I have my own website. It feels pretty professional. And I’m trying to blog again. Or I’m realizing I can blog again. I can write whatever I want and post it on my own website. It feels good.

Baby Alexandra drinking tea at China Castle, circa 1989