My blog contradicts itself.
On one hand, it began as a cry of ‘take me seriously!’ But on the other, it continually teaches me to not take myself too seriously – it lends itself to joking about my lack of exercise, the inability to balance life, and my love for a good cup of tea.
When I began, I was nineteen and finally, it felt like, becoming myself (though I’ll argue that is a process that began long before my blog and will continue long after). I wanted my own space, one where I could voice my own thoughts regardless of how refined they were. I didn’t necessarily want people to listen; I wanted to give myself a chance. It was somewhere I could be a grown-up, or at least grow up. It taught me to treat myself a little less like a kid.
But I have also learnt that if I take myself too seriously, my writing voice suffers. My blog should be a place to breathe, laugh a little, and be honest about who I am. If I pretend to like green tea in the name of being considered an adult, I don’t think it really counts. I like the freedom of being able to laugh at yourself – not in a cruel way – while stomping around in a pair of overalls.
Sometimes it’s hard to class myself as a blogger, or writer, or even as creative. I have a small desk (but I guess that doesn’t matter because I write in bed most of the time anyway). I have a part-time job that doesn’t move my creativity forward. I read and try not to steal the ideas I’ve just read.
But here I am anyway, writing.
(In my pyjamas.)