Twenty three point five.

Posted on February 19, 2013

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I look at 2011, when I posted 165 times, and 2012, when I posted 86 times.

It’s 2013, and it’s February 19, and I’ve posted 3 times.

And I go into a slight panic about where it all went, the posts I’m not writing, the photographs I’m not taking – the readership I’m surely losing as you all forget about me, moving on to bigger and better and more loyal bloggers… I panic about all that writing logged by 23 and at 23.5 and a day, where have all my words gone?

And then I relax. Because it’s February 19, 2013, it’s 7:21 p.m, Jeopardy is set to be DVR’d in the other room, and I am relaxed. It’s after a busy work day I’m sure to continue after I post, but for now I am back at my blog, rambling as the posts have always all have been and more so tonight because I’m rusty, and I’m sitting at my desk.

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The apartment’s desk, on the day it was built.

Never one to be a neat freak, organizer or decorator, I’d spent my college dorm years allowing my roommates to do the decorating or equally falling into messiness with me. In my previously apartment, lightly decorated with items from TJMaxx and Marshalls, my cousin and I shared pleasant, comfortable common areas devoid of anything too personal or of any important memorable items.

It’s 7:28 p.m. and I have the apartment to myself for a few hours. I look around at two worlds combined oddly well. A painting from my grandmother’s home hung next to the printed article he got published in 2005. My travel journal filled with treasured receipts and handwritten notes next to his row of his treasured first edition, signed antique books. In more unintentional packing, my childhood teddy bears rest on the window sill next to his Christmas Story leg lamp.

I remember when I started blogging in 2008, it was to seek attention – not in an annoying, look at me, look at me way – the first posts came at times of insecurity. Where questions were asked and I just wanted to know if my friends were going through the same thing. While travels posts from times abroad were documented for family, friends, my own memory, much of the personal at home writing was asking questions to see who answered, how they answered, what they answered with. How many answered. Blogging was the public diary filled with raw emotions about (lack of) dating, panic about what we’d become when we grow up, curiosity of knowing – I’m thinking this, what is your reaction? I’m worried about this, what is your reaction?

Now I look at the map of my backpacking travels framed and hung over his record players, and I think about how much more of 2012, and 2013 almost entirely, has been spent without asking for reactions from the public on every step. Without that need to share what I did, without a hunger for feedback to know what I did was right, interesting, worth commenting.

As I read Roger Ebert’s Life Itself, I wonder if I’d ever be able to sit down and write 400 pages about life, start to finish as a single project over the span of a few months or years. 100 pages on my childhood. 100 on my adolescence. 100 on my adulthood. 100 on what I’ve learned. I wonder if I could do it, but I worry less about the number of people and who would read it, I worry more about doing everything to make those 400 pages interesting.

Every day, I find there’s so much more to learn out there. Working at Overit, my job has changed from public relations to branding and content. And every day, for a different client, a different industry to learn. Different statistics, facts and FAQs, different demographics and tips and how-to’s and don’t to this and this is why that industry does what it does. It’s understanding here is what our audience is thinking, how can we get them to react? Here is our message, what is their reaction?

And for me, a large part of every day is writing those messages. For print, for web, for social, for blogs, for television, for radio. For grandpas and sons and grandsons, for grandmas and daughters and granddaughters.

It’s a shift in what I’m writing, but it’s still writing – and it’s fun.

And on days when it’s 7:57 p.m. and I have the house to myself and I haven’t written here in awhile, I’ll reconnect to share a goofy story. Or a thought. Maybe the random question. Or I’ll jump on to tell the world I bought a salsa colored couch over the holiday weekend and I’m excited about it, even though the furniture store won’t tell us until the day of delivery what three hour window they’ll be dropping it off, making that a nightmare of a work schedule that day. Maybe I’ll have a giggle at every time Ryan and I pull out two debit cards to split our purchase and the cashier looks at us in disgust before stomping back to their manager’s office to dig up a calculator to divide our $47 total in two. Maybe I’ll share how cleaning out my car this weekend made me react as gleefully as people at the end of Hoarders episodes do, when they realize they had forgotten how clean and organized life really could be.

I don’t know. But at 8:03 p.m. on Tuesday, February 19, I’m twenty three point five and a day old and I’m a way worse blogger than I was at twenty two, but I’ve got to go, because I’ve got some reading and learning and writing to do… off the blog.

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