Blogs these days are too topical, often monetized and lacking in authenticity. (Let me tell you how grossed out, heartbroken, confused, frustrated, etc. I am by the lack of authenticity in the world these days. God forbid I ever fall into that racket.) But I desperately needed somewhere to exercise my tiny writing muscle and a small audience to share with, and I wasn’t sure where else to turn.
As with many modes of writing there’s a kind of formula or expectation with a blog, such as length of posts, a theme or a topic, including photos in posts and updating regularly, at least if you want it to be a good blog. I worried a blog would make me feel too constricted in my writing, interfering with my flow. And it did for a minute. But I am not here to become a famous internet blogger. Fuck that. I just want to write and keep it authentic, so I will. My posts may be long, short, sporadic, whatever, I don’t care, doesn’t matter as long as I’m enjoying myself and my needs are being met.
This for me is more of a baby portfolio than a blog.
I can stop feeling embarrassed now about having this damn thing. “Oh, Candra, you have a blog?” Ugh. Stop. Yes, it’s true. I have a blog, but I don’t wish to be part of that world or to participate in the internet all too much. (Social media traumatized me.) Maybe that sounds stubbornly immature and a bit on the pretentious side. Or maybe in true hypocrite fashion I’ll sell out before you know it.
As soon as I finish writing my NYT’s best-selling memoir ripping off both “Eat, Pray, Love” and “Wild.”