Yesterday my writing came up at a lunch with family and friends. “You spend a good amount of time planning each post, don’t you?” somebody assumed, after I mentioned that I almost always post my pieces directly after writing them. Planning? Nope, that doesn’t happen in the slightest—hence my erratic posting schedule. I’d probably be much more successful if I could apply my need for control and general insanity to this blog, but the reality is that it’s one of the few corners of my life that has eclipsed those demons. It’s truly a safe space for me—one with very little obligation that’s been given the freedom to ebb and flow with my moods and inspirations.
I think it sounds a little pretentious to say this, because people are constantly telling me I write a lot…that they’re impressed by my output. Of course I think my output is embarrassing—that if I’m not posting something worth reading every single goddamn day, then holy shit I am the height of worthless. But hopefully we’re all aware by now that my perspective tends to be warped.
The truth is that I really don’t plan anything on here. Anyone who’s spent a morning with me can attest to this, as they’re often privy to me cranking something out on a whim at the kitchen counter, posting it and then probably forgetting about it by the afternoon. I’m not one to constantly revisit my old posts, and if I’m thinking about anything with this blog, it’s simply how to move forward and how to keep it fresh. Too much thought, though, would make the experience less pleasant for me, and I’m protective of that. When I’m hard on myself for so much else, it’s nice to have one warm place to spread out, or curl up, at my leisure.
It’s also simply difficult to plan ahead when my writing stems directly from the life I’m living. You can’t exactly make space on your calendar for the week your dad dies, the moment you decide to fully recover from an eating disorder, or the #deepthotz you have about friendship. If I were to try to tackle certain topics each week, I believe it would quickly feel forced and a little stale. Probably more lucrative (which is to say: lucrative at all), but not something I was truly connected to or proud of.
There’s a world of stuff out there for me to be rigorous and uptight about, so I will continue to let Twenties Collective (a name which I don’t even like, by the way!) be flawed and frenzied, totally subject to the landscape of my life…with it’s viciously boring periods and occasional moments of enlightenment.