Since March 5, 2010, I have written 1,227 blogposts, received 359 comments, and entertained or infuriated 151,702 people who clicked on my site. My most popular blog, ironically, was about Oprah Winfrey (who will be in Ottawa next week). Oprah was looking for the “quintessential Canadian”. She and her staff figured that person lived in Quebec and spoke French at home. (She only wanted to hear from Montrealers!)
I gave her shit for that, in my blog, which was picked up by the Huffington Post.
That blog received 12,253 views.
When I began this journey, I was terrified.
I suffered from debiliating anxiety. I was fat, unhappy, unemployed and somewhat disturbed. A lot of people thought I had already boarded the bus to crazy town.
I hadn’t written for self in decades. What would people say? Would anybody read it?
A lot of my friends begged me not to do it. They knew I was outspoken and they warned me that the kind of blog I wanted to write would ruin my career. I’d never work in Ottawa again. I would alienate people.
“Tough shit,” I said. “I need to do this.”
When I started, I couldn’t stop. I woke up in the middle of the night with ideas. I had things to say, lots of them. It was as if I’d opened a vein and all my blood came pouring down my arms, into my fingers.
What a rush.
I must have lived many interesting lives because my soul was desperately in need of healing. The demons had to be purged. I had to examine why I had taken a perfectly good life and screwed it up so badly. I sat before my computer with only a few sheckles in my pocket, no job to speak of, two failed marriages behind me, and a lot of explaining to do.
To myself. It is true, I’ve been talking to you nice folks, but I’m really talking to myself. Having a little fireside chat with my inner shrink. It works, by golly. Writing this blog has healed me.
Psychics have often been asked why they don’t profit from their gifts. They say there is a code among them, a belief that if they use their talents for profit, they will lose it. I believe that is also true of writers.
My biggest sin is that I’ve squandered the gift God gave me, blorging for profit for people who don’t care and who don’t understand what good writing is in the first place. Most of my life I wrote for other people, put words in their mealy mouths, made them seem witty and pithy.
That would have been fine if I’d been a playwright. But I was writing for politicians and other idiots. And that inflamed my soul.
My writing was often ingenuine. I wrote what other people wanted to hear.
Today, with the exception of some professional writing I do about causes I genuinely care about, I only write for myself.
And I don’t — and I really, really mean this — I don’t give a shit what other people think.
It’s what I think that counts.
This is my little piece of the universe. It might not be much, but it is mine.
The way I look at it, when my blood dries up and I turn to dust, my children and my friends can come here and visit me. There will be no urn, just a url. I will still be here.
My granddaughter and other grandkids to come will get a chance to meet me, with all my warts. And they will read embarassing things about their parents.
That’s the best part of all. 🙂
You don’t have to come to this blog, gentle readers and virtual friends.
There are lots of other places you could go. But you’ve come here and I cannot express how wonderful that makes me feel.
You are all my friends and I love you for supporting me.
As my hero, Ron Burgundy would say: Stay classy, WordPressers.
Thanks a lot.