Somewhere around 7 years ago I fell in love with writing. Well, not exactly. Not to the point where I actually started writing in my free time and dreamt of someday publishing a Best Selling novel, instead I fell in love with the idea of writing. I really liked English class and more than that, I really admired my English teacher.
Starting then, I worked really hard on all of my writing assignments. I became pretty good at writing and even better at punctuation. Then I made the absurd decision to go to college for English. As an English major, we were required to take 36-or-so literature courses and only 3 writing courses. I ended up cramming my 2-year-already-compact-schedule with 4 extra writing courses just because that was, really, the only enjoyable part of college. The rest of it, I hated.
In the past two years, I’ve tried to start a blog three times. Each time, I create a blog, write one killer blog post, share the link with around 7 of my closest friends, then never return to it again. I even have a folder of blogs on my desktop for the “someday” in which I decide to suck it up and share my thoughts with the world without the fear of judgment from perfect strangers.
Even though I’m terrified of writing a blog and sharing it with the world, I’ve never been scared of the “140-character-mini-blog” that is Twitter. In fact, I spend most of my free time writing, editing, and rephrasing tweets in order to attract the most favorites possible, then I pride myself in reaching double-digits. (In my head this sounds like an amazing accomplishment, but if you actually consider my followers, this means that only 3% of everyone who reads my tweets actually thinks that they’re worthy of being favorite’d.)
Some of my friends will tell you that my life is a continuous train wreck of unfortunate events, which is why I come off as funny – they actually delight in the many, many, many things that go horrendously wrong in my everyday life. (I’ll thank my dad for this one!) Others will tell you that my jokes are about as clever as the average five-year-old, which is the only reason that some people think my Twitter is even somewhat humorous. Lastly, there’s a small batch of my friends who will actually say that I’m funny and that my twitter is sublime. (I’m not sure anyone has ever used the word “sublime” to describe it, but I’ll keep dreaming.)
Last week, I wrote a really awesome email (which was really more of a blog post, except that I only sent it to one person). Later that night, I read it to my mom because I wanted the soul-satisfying opinion of my mother’s to tell me that I’m wonderful. After finishing reading it, she actually says to me, “Wow, Kaelly! That was so good! It makes me think you should write!” It made me realize that I went to college for English, to become a writer, to learn how to share my thoughts and feelings with people in an eloquent manner, and I failed so horrifically that my own mother is unaware that I’m a decent writer even after I pushed through one of the best English programs in the nation in exactly two years.
I spend a lot of time reading blogs that other people have written, and I constantly find myself saying, “I could’ve written that!” except for the fact that I never actually write anything, ever. So instead of spending my days dreaming of becoming the writer with whom everyone can relate on an extremely personal level, today I decided that I’m actually going to do it. Today, I’m going to take the leap and share my crazy, event-filled, unlucky life with everyone. And maybe there’s someone out there who will relate to both my mishaps and my blessings the same way that I do with other writers.
So here I am: terrified, swallowing my pride, and hoping that everyone will be kind.