Ever since I was a little girl, I've loved to write. I kept diaries throughout my school years. When everyone else complained about writing papers in college, I actually enjoyed it. That might be why I went into a profession that requires me to spend most of my day each day writing. When I started this blog, nearly two years ago, it was so that I could write what I want when I want; a creative outlet to supplement the not-so-creative writing I do at work.
My first year blogging, I was pretty dedicated and managed to get (I think) quite a following. Friends, family, and even a few strangers read and commented on the blog. I was covered in a couple of publications (holy cow!) and it was a great boost for my creative spirit. But year two wasn't such a success. A friend of my mother's recently asked me what had happened to WashingTina, and I had no answer. I thought for a minute and realized that 2011 was a bit of a bust. Nothing particularly interesting happened, WH and I didn't travel anywhere, and I was going through a bit of a "blue period." But unlike Picasso, my blue period did not beget any creativity whatsoever. As it turns out, I'm not of Hemmingway's ilk, and my best material doesn't so much come when I'm unhappy (or drunk, as it were).
But last week four things happened that made me realize that this is too important to not keep up. First was my mother's friend's question (and further encouragement: see Wise Crackers). The others stemmed from gifts I received for Christmas. My sister gave me a WashingTina scrapbook, illustrating and highlighting some of the memorable moments from the blog. She and my mother had spent a great deal of time selecting their favorite stories and putting the book together. Just listening to them gush about the blog and the stories and how hard it was to pick just a few, really struck me. Someone besides me enjoys the blog. Someone besides me felt the void of my absence here. Someone wanted more.
Thirdly, WH gave me a book by a writer (duh, who else writes books?!) that reminded him of me. As I started reading her words, her talk about writing, I was inspired. I was reminded how gratifying, how cathartic it is to write. How important writing is, and always has been, in my life.
Finally, my father-in-law, who had never read my blog before, spent some time with the scrapbook on Christmas reading my writing. He was so impressed, he told me that when I write my book, he plans to be the first in line to buy a copy. From someone that I respect immensely, this was the last little message I needed. I must write. For myself. For the people who love me. And maybe, just maybe, for some of those people who first found their way here, and who might find their way back again.
This New Year's Day, I'm resolving to write. It might not always be great, but it will be here. And I want to hear from you . . . because it matters to me. And it makes me happy. I'm not so much kissing my blue period goodbye . . . I'm just going to write my way through it. And maybe when I come out on the other side, I'll have left a little nugget of something worth reading behind.