I’m two years into blogging and I have a total of sixty-six followers.
I care and I don’t care.
I care because I’m human and I have an ego. I want to be recognized and praised like most of us do. I haven’t yet reached that state of being where self-awareness and spiritual growth have rendered me immune to such needs.
I don’t care because I have discovered that I love to write. Whether or not I ever reach that tipping point where things take off, I’ll write for the rest of my life for the simple pleasure of it.
I still care whether or not my posts are well-written or entertaining. I’m still convinced I’m the worst writer on the planet but I have become immune to inaction for one reason:
No one can stop me from feeling how I do about writing – not even myself.
I like the way I write and to compromise my style to satisfy someone else or worse – to not write at all – would be a terrible injustice to myself. Aside from room for improvement, I like my quirky poems about appliances, insects and dirt. Ode To A Power Inverter
My eccentricity defines me.
Don’t get me wrong. I constantly strive to better my writing but I can’t wait for “perfect”.
Maybe my subject matter is boring. Maybe I’ll use the word “maybe” way too many times in one post. Maybe I’ll make dozens of grammatical mistakes. Maybe I’ll never hit that tipping point. Maybe I shouldn’t do ninety-percent of my editing after I’ve published a post.
Maybe – a lot of stuff.
The point is, after writing for two years, I’ve learned this about myself: I’ll be writing till I’m dead – even if I never make a dime or surpass sixty-six followers.
I write because I love to write. That’s all the reason I need.