When I was younger I convince myself that I can write. And as a teenager and student I wrote a lot. Stories, poems, songs. There must be at least 100 longer texts and two or three notebooks filled with my ‘poetry’ to be the evidence of me being a writer. But that’s not all, I also convinced myself that I write good. Now I wanna laugh at myself in disbelief, especially when I read my pieces of ‘art’. But back then, all I needed was approval of a couple of my best friends and strangers of the internet, who I guess, just like me, had a little idea of a good written literature. Or they were just friendly perhaps.
This went further. I started couple of blogs in my life. The first one is so long forgotten, that I don’t even remember the name or the platform it was on. But I guess I treated it more like a diary, next to my countless paper diaries. I now realize that I just simply preferred the written version of documenting life, than the typed one. It changed overtime, but I still like to go back to the diaries of my teenage years. And there were other blogs or forms of publishing my writings, none of them even remotely successful.
Then I started this blog. I was full of hopes to write it nicely, regularly and to get an audience that would grow and help me bloom as a writer. None of these things ever happened. My regularity has ups and downs. I can write weekly for couple of months and then have couple of months of complete inexplicable drought. If I write nicely is to every ones own judgment; I may be harsh with myself: not the best quality here. Maybe it’s the language, English isn’t my mother tongue after all. But would it be any different if I wrote in Polish? Doubtful. As for the last expectation: audience, there are possibly two maybe three people who read me. I am that popular.
I gave myself another shot, trying to get a little bit into social media game. Partly to promote my writing, partly for connections I guess. So I opened an Instagram account, tried to advertise my blog there, write some insightful captions and even post stories. It didn’t really help my blog to bloom. But I learned to like Instagram for other reasons, so I continue on. Just like I continue on writing here. I won’t stop, because it somehow gives me joy, even if it’s left unread, unseen, unheard.
Reading other people’s blogs and Instagram captions made me also see how beautiful people can write, how their words flow, capture you and somehow pour into your heart. I wish I could write like that. I wish I could make people stop a bit and reflect on the words I wrote. It’s no good to compare myself to others, but I don’t think I have it in me. I don’t have the words, I don’t have the tools probably. I don’t think I inspire, even though that was the theme of my blog at some point. I wanted to inspire. But it seems like I don’t have much to share with others, other than couple of travel stories, a few recipes, some unsurprising points of view.
Maybe what I really learned over the years is that I like writing, even though it’s no good or not even correct. That writing a blog doesn’t have to be for the fame and earning money, because not everyone can do that, not everyone is so talented. I am obviously not that talented. I can just keep writing and posting what I want and when I want, so that years from now I come back and enjoy again all the trips we took, the milestones of my baby boy, how my opinions and points of view changes over the years. And that’s what I am planning to do now.