Another blog died today, suffocated by its author’s expectations for herself: the posts are uninspiring; they’re too confessional; she doesn’t enjoy blogging like she once did and isn’t reading enough to write well; her creativity needs other outlets.
Like the balance of most blogs ever created, this one’s brave observations went gently into the dark night of unhelpful standards for work that is worth doing.
Inspiration is snake oil. There’s strength in vulnerability. Worthy work is not fun for long stretches of time. Writing well depends more on regular publishing than it does the right kind of reading. Creativity is something you find after the fact.
Blogging is building a body of work, and so I’m giving creativity and inspiration over to the artists, although I’m fairly certain they, too, will say that their songs and films and books and sculptures and poems and lesson plans and games are a body of work that feels shoddy more often than it feels worthy of publication. Yet the best ones keep at it.
The best blogging is off the mark for extended periods, and making it very, very often feels like drudgery that no reader with better things to do would enjoy. Yet when you review the body of work from those awful periods, aren’t you grateful to at least have something to show for your frustration?
Isn’t something is better than nothing?