Blogging–the sheer amount of time and effort, hours and hours–is something I don’t talk about offline. How would I describe it? Addictive. Debilitating.
When I wrote for a blog with an audience, I had the promise of feedback prodding me into work. At the same time, writing became more and more difficult: there was so much anxiety hanging on each short essay. About William Saletan re: partial-birth, even, and that was dwarfed by the fear that would leap up whenever I wrote about anything important. Eventually, it was too much to continue. And yet, not blogging hasn’t made me more productive–the opposite, actually. I sometimes wish I hadn’t given it up. Politics aside, personality aside, at least I was making words.
I wonder if blogging isn’t a way to channel–and neutralize–some of the rare tendencies that make writers. Obsessive editing and reading, picking over and picking out words. I’ve gotten used to doing these things primarily on blog, and I may have lost the habit of associating them with other media and formats.
The thing is, I like writing. I like being a writer. I don’t want to send my work elsewhere. But at the same time, it really doesn’t seem–after a decade–as though blogging will result in anything but more blogging.
So now what?
We moved in yesterday. The house is beautiful inside, but its newness makes it feel uninhabitable. There’s something hostile about living in a house no one has prepared for you, as though it’s reserved for someone else. It’s also chilly suddenly: the gentle slide into winter is something else to miss about California.