I've seen the popular bloggers--the ones with a following of hundreds or even thousands. I know what they write about. I enjoy reading their posts, whether they focus on fashion, design, photography, or regularly pour out their thoughts and feelings. I'm attracted to that. I applaud their creativity, originality, and transparency.
With every wonderful post I read, the thought of "Why can't I be more like that?" pops into mind. Uh huh. The question that has plagued human beings--particularly the female side--long before blogging was in existence. I ask it. Often. Maybe it's a matter of pride on my part. I want to be a good writer, a writer whose works touch people or causes them to think. Humorous photo essays may produce a laugh or two, but rarely invite accolades or emails detailing a change in the reader's life.
Time and again, something comical will happen around the house or with my family and I'll think, I need to blog about this. So I do. Because it cements memories in my mind. The little things, the amusing conversations. I don't want to lose them. But after I complete such a post and press the Publish button, I'll walk away, thinking to myself, Next time, next time, I'll post something with more depth or significance. And sometimes I do, but I can't force it. Only very rarely does it come effortlessly. More often, I'll find myself typing away on a humorous piece again, eager to write it down and share.
In so doing, I think I've settled into my niche. It feels comfortable. Right. No matter the amount of comments I receive or the number of hits my blog gets, I'm documenting the life God has blessed me with. Has blessed my family with. A life complete with its ups, downs, dents, nicks, and imperfections, but laced around the edges with the small, funny, and seemingly insignificant moments that we'll remember--one day--as the moments that mattered most. These days won't last forever, I know that.
And so I write.