I have this friend–we will call her, um, Yim–who cannot help but interject this sentence into every conversation: “Oh I have a story to tell you about that!” Or something like it: “Here’s a funny story”, “You will love this story” or “Let me tell you about the time I had to use the bathroom in the most unusual place.”
Yim is one of my favorite people ever and I feel like we are perfectly matched in the friend department: because I love stories–I really do. I love listening to them from other people’s mouths; reading them in books and articles and blog posts; watching stories in movie form. And mostly I love to tell stories; story telling is literally the best.
I’ve been contemplating changing up my blog–I’ve kept it up for almost a solid ten years, which is shocking, given my flightyness and inability to see almost any project through to the bitter end. It seems like all the other blogs I check out have some sort of on-going theme, target audience, or emotional cohesiveness in general–and from these blogs, springing up like daisies, are separate Facebook pages, Instagram and Pinterest accounts– and a defined, collected persona attached to an official dot com, maybe even with a link to an etsy shop.
That…seems like a whole crudton of work that I just don’t have the spare neurons for.
And I got to wondering why I started blogging in the first place. (To update my Florida fam back in the day, before Skype and Facebook were things that real people did.)
But now my mom utilizes social media better than I do.
Boredom? That is a non-issue these days.
The love of writing? A diary would surely be enough to cover that.
The attention? I feel freakishly awkward when people tell me they love my blog.
And then it dawned on me the other day as I read the prompt on my wordpress screen: “Share your story here.”
I love me a good story.
I love telling you what I learned about Jesus.
I love sharing my excitement over house building.
I love to make you roflyao while telling you about ducks and tornados and babies and vending machines and zombies and running and conspiracy theories and rogue mice and art classes.
When I’m happy, I want you guys to be happy. When I share something sad, it’s because I want you to see that bad days exist right along with the good, and they roll out just as quickly as they roll in.
When I admit to being a semi-psycho, it’s because I don’t want you to feel like you’re the only one who has an occasional season of crazy–and you know you do, because we all do.
When I experience a miracle, you’re damn sure gonna hear about it.
And the other thing of it is sometimes I have diarrhea of the fingers.
I’m in the beginning stages of writing an actual book for children (meaning testing it out verbally at bedtime on my own guinea-kids) but it’s not enough to satisfy my story-telling appetite. So this rambling, scatterbrained blog? Is here to stay.
What’s your favorite insanity-fighting story?