Why I’m Writing

I be-bopped my way onto this blogging dance party sans prearranged playlist.

It satisfied a whim, and now I’m sitting in my kitchen, like a replacement DJ freshly hired to spin at a wedding reception thirty minutes pre commencement, scratching my head idealess.  

This blog was a summertime idle moment split second decision labored and delivered by tedium and idleness. Conceived by my love of reading and a list of books read.  No notes, commentary, summaries, research; nothing on the 63 books already digested by the time I started to write.     

The writing gurus decree write what you know, so my primary subject matter pertains to books, supplemented with teaching and Little Thing anecdotal ruminations.

At least I’m degreed in books and curriculum.  

Writing though? No degree there–nor in Little Things.  

Yet, I stress. Writing informally allows wiggle room, but academic writing is structured, similar to a mathematical formula.       

My strategy needs reimagining, refarming to cultivate fodder for my blog.

Am I limiting myself too much?

My chronic medical concerns (fibromyalgia, IBS, and Raynaud’s) and the hoops, loops, successes, and failures of medical system navigation are blog worthy.   However,  I’m not WEB MD nor an expert, and people don’t want to hear about another person’s pain and ailments–contrary to your frailing Great Aunt Dorothy’s popular opinion.   

I’m 34.  

I look fine, so I must be fine, right?  

When does venting disintegrate into perceived complaining and negativity. Heaven forbid an individual appears ungrateful.   

I’m already concerned my posts read pessimistically.     

I could incorporate my poetry or try short fiction.  

Am I not focused enough?  Should I just write about books?  Or just about teaching?

I could compose for writing’s sake.  Whatever jams this Ram.  Who cares how focused the subject matter is!

I’m doing this for me.

Now for the why.    

  • For fun.  But once writing begins, there’s less time for reading.   Ahhhh, calamity strikes!
  • I’m rusty and dusty.  Even though my writing is not always pretty and sometimes not perfect,  it’s mine and original.  
  • Telling my students to write while not practicing myself walks and talks hypocritical methodology.   Like telling Little Thing to clean her room while I lounge reading a book instead of folding the laundry piled on the couch.
  • An inspirational English teacher friend once told me: write when they write.  I’ve tried y’all, but that’s when I grade, email, plan, etc.  Not to mention help individual students with their own writing hang-ups.  Write when they write can’t happen all the time.  
  • I want to improve my technique–for myself and for students. For them to be their best writers, I have to be my best writer.  

Oh shit.  

I’m not doing this just for me–I’m doing this for them, too.

This blog isn’t as self-serving as first imagined.  

(This is an honest to god aha moment. No kidding.)

 Apparently another bullet is needed.  

  • For reflection. For conclusions.  For the so what or why should we care ending (minus the first person) that I demand from students at a writing task’s closure.  

Because as teachers, we aren’t teaching them our profession.  We are teaching a craft, which requires practice.  

They already think I’m rusty and dusty.  There’s no reason to prove them right.  



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